


Redemption

by jagwriter78



Series: Walk Through The Fire [2]
Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 04, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jagwriter78/pseuds/jagwriter78
Summary: After Logan's reappearance in Veronica's life, they are both trying to reclaim the life they've lost when that bomb gravely interrupted their lives.
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Series: Walk Through The Fire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869448
Comments: 49
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read this, I suggest you read the previous story in this series called Home. Otherwise I don't think this will make quite that much sense. 
> 
> A big shoutout to my betareader, you know who you are :-) I really appreciate all the snarky comments you throw my way!
> 
> This is part of the Walk Through The Fire series.
> 
>   
>    
> 

It took a lot of effort not to tell dad that Logan was alive when I met him in court for our 10am date. Two minutes was all it took for him to comment on my lighthearted mood. He pried, and I confess I wasn’t very convincing in trying to give him a good reason for being so cheerful, but he finally dropped the inquisition when I told him I’d cook dinner for us. We haven’t had our regular daddy-daughter dinner in a very long time, so he welcomed the suggestion with open arms.

Logan and I had talked a lot about how we were going to break the news to dad. Any scenario we could come up with made us realize that there wasn’t going to be an easy way to do this. So we decided I’d just tell him over dinner point blank while Logan waited at Dick’s for my call. That sounded like a more reasonable plan than him walking in through the door and giving dad the shock of a lifetime.

My home-made lasagna is cooking in the oven when Pony announces dad’s return home by happily bouncing towards the front door with his tail wagging even before dad opens the door. I can hear him praising the dog before he calls out for me.

_ Whatever you’re cooking, it smells delicious. _

_ There’s lasagna in the oven,  _ I shout back just as he walks into the kitchen, holding up a bottle of red wine.

_ Clairvoyant?  _ he says and puts the bottle on the counter before he goes for the shelf with the wine glasses. He places them next to the bottle and then just leans back against the counter, studying me as I get the lasagna out of the oven.

_ What? My butt look big in these pants?  _ I scoff, getting exactly the response from him I was hoping for.

_ This is exactly the kind of conversation I was thinking about having with my daughter when she gets back into town after six weeks on the road. Does her butt look big in her pants. _

_ So you were thinking about commenting on my butt, I knew it. _

_ Honey, you’re the daughter of this stud,  _ he mounts his argument by pointing his thumb at his own chest,  _ you can only be absolutely perfect in every way. _

He places a kiss on my cheek before he goes for the corkscrew in order to open the bottle of wine.

_ Fancy. You picked a wine without a screw cap. _

_ Figured times like these deserve some celebration. _

Inadvertently, I do a double take and deadpan for a second while I put a piece of lasagna on a plate for him. I recover quickly, however, realizing that he’s obviously referring to me returning to Neptune and not talking about the news about Logan that I think about breaking to him tonight. I take a deep breath, plaster a smile across my face and turn around to hand him his plate, which he accepts graciously. 

_ So for how long can Pony and I expect your company?  _ he asks as he picks up the wine glasses with his free hand. 

_ Cutting right to the point, are we? _

I serve myself a piece of lasagna as well, pick up the bottle of wine and follow dad to the dinner table. 

_ Your dog’s been really lonely lately. You didn’t hear all that heartbreaking whining during the night,  _ he informs me matter-of-factly as he takes the bottle from me and starts pouring each of us a glassful.  _ And you really spoiled that dog. You say no, he still jumps right into bed. Hogs the covers like no-one else, too.  _

_ I spoiled that dog? It wasn’t me who bought Pony that doggy bed that’s taking up the whole side corner of the living room. That was all your girlfriend’s doing. _

_ In an effort to keep him out of the bed that obviously was very much in vain.  _

_ You mean cuddling with those 50 pounds of dog isn’t much of a thing for Charlotte? _

_ She rather likes to cuddle with these 180 pounds of sizzling grade A meat. Amongst doing other things.  _

_ Yeah, about that… _ I start slowly and stuff a forkful of lasagna into my mouth. Obviously, I give him a completely different idea of where this conversation is headed because his reaction is a Keith Mars classic.

_ You know that people in their fifties still can have a very active sex life. I am a very considerate dad though and just want to make sure that all that noise won’t interfere with your beauty sleep. _

I roll my eyes,  _ You wanna know why I really bought those earplugs? Newsflash. It wasn’t cause Pony’s rattling the shingles. _

_ Your dad’s getting laid and it’s awesum! _

_ Oh gross. _

_ When did my daughter turn into a prude?  _ He raises his eyebrows and starts to mimic my voice,  _ Dad, can’t you knock? I could’ve had sex you know. _

_ No more sex talk. Eat. _

He grins mischievously as he digs into his lasagna,  _ Double the cheese. _

_ The Mars secret recipe,  _ I say, putting my fork into my mouth in a deliberately slow move just to proof a point _. _

_ The Keith Mars secret recipe,  _ he corrects me immediately.

_ C’mon, I figured that one out when I was ten. Double the cheese. That’s your secret recipe on pretty much any food dish that has  _ Keith Mars special  _ attached to it. _

_ So… _

_ So…  _ I mimic him playfully, not quite sure what he wants to get at.

_ About that… _

About that, yeah. Ah hell, just say it, Veronica. It’s not gonna get any easier. Start with the first revelation of the night, prepare the ground, and then move in for the kill.

_ I can’t stay here any longer, dad,  _ I blurt out, and immediately receive an expression of shock from him that I thought I wouldn’t be getting until I spilled the news about Logan.  __

_ You know you’re very welcome to stay as long as you want, honey. I don’t want you to feel like you need to move on because I’m dating again.  _

_ Look, this isn’t about you and Charlotte. I’m really happy you have her in your life. She’s good for you, so keep her, all right?  _

_ Then what’s this about? _

_ There isn’t going to be an easy way to break this news, so I’ll just say it.  _ I take a sip from the red wine, in desperate need of some liquid courage, before I just say straight out,  _ Logan’s not dead. _

Dad drops his fork on the plate and looks at me with an expression I can’t really read. It’s a mix of shock, confusion and also concern. He probably thinks I’ve gone off the rails.

_ Excuse me?  _ he starts, but I cut him off immediately,  _ just hear me out, okay? _

_ Veronica, we’ve been down the coulda, woulda, shoulda road so many times. Please don’t go there again. It’s not healthy. _

_ Logan’s not dead,  _ I repeat, and it slowly seems to sink in that I am dead serious about this. _ He’s currently at Dick’s. _

_ No jokes about this. _

_ Trust me, this is not something I’d be cracking jokes about. _

I’m taking another sip of my wine, studying dad closely while trying to figure out which version of Keith Mars I am about to encounter. The compassionate dad or the protective dad?

_ Do I need to get my gun and shoot that bastard? You know I totally would do that for you. _

And the protective dad wins out 10 to 1. This will be fun.

_ So after over a year, he suddenly walks back into your life after having everyone believe he was dead? Because he really did a pretty convincing job that the body found in your car was in fact his. Or wait, no, he paid off people so he could just disappear off the face of the earth. And on your wedding day no less. Maybe Epner really didn’t place that bomb in your car like he keeps on claiming. Where does he get off, really? _

Dad’s talking himself into a rage which is just one of the many possible outcomes I had for this conversation. It’s still one of the better ones though, as the others ranged from a high noon shootout to a possible heart attack. If he continues down this path though, I am pretty sure we’ll have that shootout at the O.K. Corral by tonight. Gotta reel in the cowboy.

_ Look, I don’t expect you to understand right now, but would you please just hear him out? _

_ Honey, do I have to remind you of all those times we sat on the couch and you cried in my arms? _

_ No, you don’t need to remind me of that,  _ I cringe. How could I forget. There were days when I could barely drag myself out of bed. I woke up crying after my nightmare, furious and helpless that I couldn’t save Logan. Dad was always there – picking me up when I couldn’t hold myself up anymore. Comforting me when the memories just got too much to handle. He nursed me back into a state where I was okay enough to at least go on.

I know he’s concerned about me. He only wants the best for me, and me crawling back into what he had started calling my desperately-missing-Logan-hole-of-misery certainly isn’t what he wants for me. I’ve since filled up that hole, never to be dug up again. But Logan’s back, and I need dad to understand that he’s here to stay. We’ve had plenty of discussions back in the day about how Logan wasn’t the right one for me. How he didn’t deserve me. How he was always going to hurt me, because that’s what people like him do. How I could do so much better.

The first time we broke up, dad didn’t say a thing. No lecturing, no  _ you can do better _ , nothing. He just wrapped his arm around my shoulders and held me close for the next hour, letting me know he was there should I need him. The second time we broke up, I got the full lecture about how I needed to pick guys more carefully and that maybe someone more relaxed and down to earth would be more suitable for me. The kinda guy who wouldn’t have a run in with the law at least every other week. The third time Logan and I broke up, I got the full ice cream pampering for three days straight while he allowed me to wallow in my misery. The fourth time we broke up, all I got from him was a kiss and a simple  _ are you okay? _

Logan was never his first choice for me, and I can understand why. Who’d want to see their teenage daughter date a guy that seemed to be the perfect embodiment of a hotheaded, rampant and short-tempered nitwit. He never got to see the boy I fell in love with and deeply cared about though, the person I saw Logan could and eventually turned out to be - not until I returned to Neptune for good a whole nine years later.

For almost a year, dad was Mr. Mars to Logan which was just the bit of warning he yielded that said  _ you better not mess with my daughter again.  _ His offer to call him by his first name came unexpected, in the middle of a conversation, when Logan started off his sentence with  _ Mr. Mars _ and dad immediately corrected him with just one word –  _ Keith.  _ That was when I knew that dad finally approved.

_ Where the hell was he all this time? _

His voice breaks me out of my thoughts, and I look up at him.

_ It’s complicated. He needs to tell you himself. _

_ And you trust him? _

_ I trust him that he wouldn’t just walk out on me like that. _

_ Consider me the skeptical type. _

_ I get that you’re pissed. _

_ Now that may be a slight understatement.  _ There’s an awkward moment of silence between us, before he speaks up again. _ Is that why you’ve been away more often than home? Because you were with Logan? _

_ No,  _ I shake my head slightly,  _ I didn’t know until he showed up at my motel in Tennessee on Monday.  _

_ I really don’t know, Veronica. He’s put you through so much already. _

He reaches over and puts his hand on top of mine, stilling my nervous fork tapping against the plate.

_ And you’ve always warned me off him. But he’s changed, you know that. Do you honestly think he’d do this to me on purpose? _

Dad pauses for a moment, and I can see him collecting his thoughts. I know he’ll give me an honest answer, whether I want to hear it or not. He’s my dad, and that’s what dads do. I brace myself for the inevitable  _ yes  _ I suspect I’ll be hearing, but instead, I get the answer I was hoping for.

_ No, I don’t. _

_ Thank you,  _ I give him a short smile. _ So can I give him a call and tell him he can come over without the prospect of you shooting him on the doorstep? _

_ Fine,  _ he huffs exasperated. _ But I think I may need something a little bit stronger than that red wine. _

Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting outside on the steps of the porch waiting for Logan to show up. Pony is lying by my side, and I absentmindedly stroke his fur when we both hear a car drive down the usually quiet street. Pony’s head shoots up, and he gets quite agitated when Dick’s Porsche pulls into the driveway. I reach down to grab him by his collar to keep him from leaping off the porch, but he dashes for the car’s passenger side before I even get a chance.

_ Hey Ponyboy,  _ I can hear Logan’s voice over the dog’s happy barks as I walk towards the driveway to greet him. I can’t help but smile at the sight in front of me - Logan on his knees, ruffling the dog’s fur while Pony’s slobbering his face with sloppy wet doggy kisses.

_ Someone’s happy to see you,  _ I say and wave at Dick in the driver’s seat who just grins back at me and gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Logan gets up and grabs Pony by his collar to stop him from bouncing happily around our feet. He leans in to kiss me, but I pull back instinctively. There’s no way he’s going to kiss me with the same lips that just got slobbered over by our dog.

_ At least Pony was happy to see me,  _ he says, and there’s this cross of pretend hurt and light amusement flashing over his face.

_ You just kissed a dog with that mouth,  _ I reply as I start walking back to the house. I stop at the front door, waiting for Logan and Pony to catch up.

_ Just a fair warning. Dad has tipped back a couple or three. _

_ He took it that bad, huh? _

_ He was pretty cool actually. Only threatened to shoot you once. _

_ I’m very much relieved,  _ he snorts and holds out his hand for me. I bite my lips curled into a smile, before reaching over, lacing my fingers with his. Suddenly, I feel like I’m nineteen again, bringing home the boyfriend for dinner for the first time, hoping that he would pass dad’s thorough inspection and earn him his approval. Except I’m no longer nineteen, and Logan has since passed that test with flying colors, but still – it feels as if this is what I need. Dad’s approval about having Logan back in my life.

Pony dashes into the house before I even manage to fully open the door, tail wagging, barking loudly and thus, announcing our return. 

_ Pony, down!  _ I shout after him, trying to get him to quieten down but I’m not very successful. I can hear dad giving him the same command in the kitchen, which eventually does the trick, and the barking dies down.

Not a second later, dad shows up in the doorway. He lays an eye on Logan, his eyes widen, and with a short  _ excuse me,  _ he turns and walks back in the kitchen. We follow him in and find him at the counter, the bottle of Scotch in his hand as he pours himself another glass.

_ I think I need another one of these first,  _ he announces and downs the contents of the glass in one go.  _ So, Logan, what’s new with you? And while I’m asking, do you even remotely have any idea what you put my daughter through? Any plans for a repeat? Because if you have, just let me make this clear right now: I’ve got an unregistered weapon stashed away that I’m not hesitant to use. _

_ Dad! _

Am I shocked about his outburst? Hell yeah. Am I surprised? No.

_ No, it’s fine, Veronica,  _ Logan cuts in, obviously a lot calmer about this than I am _. I know he’s just looking out for you. _

_ And apparently had a lot more to drink than just the couple of Scotches I saw. You promised to be civil. _

_ I am civil. The gun isn’t even in play yet. We’re merely talking about the hypothetical use of said weapon and maybe where I possibly could hide a body that’s never supposed to be found. _

I narrow my eyes and shoot him a glance that could kill, which obviously gets my point across because he raises his hands defensively.

_ Fine. I promised I’d listen so I’ll listen. I didn’t promise I’m gonna like what I’m hearing, though. That’s yet to be determined. _

_ Fair enough,  _ Logan says, trying to ease the tension.

We’ve been sitting in the living room for quite a while, with the Scotch and three glasses on the small coffee table between us. The conversation so far has been pretty straightforward. Logan’s story is pretty much the same one I heard from him in a motel room in Tennessee four days ago. Woke up in a hospital room alone, thought I was dead, signed up for a covert operation in Syria, found out I was still alive, went AWOL. And here he is now.

Dad’s listening with an open mind, interrupting him only once or twice with valid questions. He’s civil, I have to give him that. It isn’t until we dig deeper into Logan’s story that the Scotch finally comes into play. One glass that leads to another, then to a third.

I take a sip while stealing a glance at Logan. His elbows are resting on his thighs, fingers curled around his tumbler, his head bowed and staring at the dark amber liquid he’s swirling around in his glass. His body language is easy to read - he’s not comfortable going into detail about the last year. Avoiding eye contact, that’s the first tell. The second? His fingers tightly gripping the Scotch to keep them from trembling. The slight shift in his voice in tone and volume as he’s answering dad’s more in-depth questions – that’s the third.

_ I hadn’t even left the hospital yet, let alone been cleared for duty when this Commander came to see me, offering me what he called a once in lifetime career opportunity. Word was that ISIS was aggressively recruiting again in order to rebuild their strength. They needed someone to answer one of their recruitment calls and infiltrate from within. ISIS wanted trained, reckless mercenaries. The Navy needed someone with training in intel and speaking Arabic. I fit their profile as much as I fit ISIS’. I had nothing left to lose, and I thought maybe this would at least give me some purpose again. The Navy had pulled me out of my shithole once before. They gave me a new identity, and two weeks later I was on a plane to Rammstein for further briefing. Three weeks after, I was headed to Aleppo from where I started my journey to ISIS bootcamp. _

_ Who were you reporting back to and how? _

_ In the beginning, I had a contact in Aleppo. The camp was so far out, it took the better of a day to make the trip there and back. After a while, I couldn’t justify anymore why I needed to be on any of the convoys headed to Aleppo. They started to get suspicious, so I stopped asking to go. I flew rather blindly after that until ISIS split the camp and moved us over the border back to the region around Mosul. Since the move didn’t go unnoticed and I knew the NATO still had soldiers posted in Mosul, it was just a matter of days until I had a personal contact among the locals. _

_ Do you have any idea who they could’ve been reporting to?  _

Logan shakes his head,  _ Protocol would be to have information go through as many hands as needed to cover tracks without compromising the intel. My best guess is that the end of the chain was probably someone at the Pentagon, given the importance of such a military operation. _

_ How many hands are we talking about here? _

_ From me to end, five, maybe six. It would go from me to the first contact. From there it would go to another middleman, then on to the first Navy contact. From there to higher up the ranks and then to the Pentagon – if the Pentagon was the final recipient. _

Logan and dad going back and forth without me gives me the chance to just listen and observe. Dad all businesslike, rattling off one question after the other to probe for more information, getting right to the point. Logan nervously tapping his foot as he answers, hands still clutching the glass of Scotch he has since emptied. His gaze is wandering aimlessly through the room, almost scared of making eye contact.

It’s not the psych major that realizes that Logan is holding back. It’s me, plain ol’ Veronica. I’ve known him long enough to recognize the subtle changes in his demeanor that tell me there’s more to what he’s telling. He’s all factual, rattling off one explanation after the other. He’s giving dad and I just what we need to hear – but not necessarily what I  _ want _ to hear.

Facts are all nice and dandy when it comes to doing groundwork for a new case. Get down the basics and run from there. No personal attachment needed or wanted. But this isn’t just any ordinary case. This is Logan’s life we’re trying to repair. Personal attachment and involvement very much wanted and needed. I hope that once we dig deeper and unearth most of the dirt he’s been fed, he’ll be comfortable enough to tell.

_ So we track the intel,  _ I comment, and pat his knee as I reach over and place my glass back on the coffee table.

His feet shuffling stills as he looks over at me.  _ Except that once you get to the first Navy contact, you’ll need high-level military clearance to get any further. _

I raise my eyebrows, as I first look at dad, then turn to Logan. _ Or a pretty good hacker. _

_ Hacking into a military computer?  _ Dad puffs,  _ that’s bold. Connections could be more helpful. _

_ That’s not the kind of connections I have,  _ Logan injects. __

_ Which brings us back to a hacker. _

Of course Logan knows exactly what or better who I am hinting at.  _ As much I adore Mac and her mad computing skills, this is not something I’d want to drag her into. _

I shrug my shoulders,  _ she might know someone. She’s made quite the connections over the years. _

_ You do know that hacking a military computer is considered treason. _

_ But only if you get caught,  _ I reply with just a hint of snark and immediately get a testy response from Logan.

_ And what would you call it if you don’t get caught? Hypothetical treason? _

_ If it’s hypothetical, it can’t be treason. _

_ You don’t want to start that discussion with some of the inmates at Guantanamo. _

_ Point taken,  _ I shrug it off _. If we can’t get the files that way, then we need to work our way up the chain in person. Start with your contacts in Syria and Iraq and go from there. _

_ You don’t wanna go down that path, Veronica. _

_ You said we can’t hire a hacker, so you gotta give us something else to work with. _

_ This isn’t it. _

_ Why not? _

_ Because it just isn’t. _

_ We can’t hire a hacker, we can’t go after your contacts… you said you wanted to get to the bottom of this, so give us something. _

_ Stop asking!  _ he shouts, but lowers his voice immediately,  _ just trust me on this one, okay? _

So I’ve found the sore spot. For a moment, I ponder whether I should really drop it as he’s asked me to or if I should keep on pushing. It’s in my genes to dig deeper once I’ve caught onto something. I’ve lost friendships over that. I’ve lost Logan over that. Letting this go won’t be easy, especially since trust is not one of my stronger traits. But Logan has shown me over and over the last few years that I can do just that – trust him blindly. I take a deep breath and drop the inquisition – at least for today.

_ Let’s go back to the beginning then,  _ dad brings the conversation back on track. _ There’s the other chain of command we can follow. You said your Captain came to see you at the hospital. _

_ Yeah, I was still in the ICU when he showed. I guess I must’ve driven the nurses crazy asking about Veronica and why they wouldn’t let her in to see me. He… _ He turns his head over his shoulder, his eyes seeking mine in a desperate attempt to find some comfort and reassurance.  _ He said the car bomb that injured me killed you. He left a folder with a couple of police reports, said he was sorry and that I should move on. He never visited again. And I never asked anyone about you ever again. _

I’ve always thought of Logan’s Captain as the understanding and compassionate CO who actually cared about the well-being of the officers in his command and their families. But this paints a completely different picture of the guy who came to visit after his death. It doesn’t sound like the guy who held my hand and choked on his words while talking about Logan. How can a guy tell me to treasure the moments we had and then turn around and tell Logan he better move on?

_ I can’t believe he had the nerve to lie to my face and tell me how sorry he was for my loss when he knew damn well you were very much alive in a hospital on the other side of the country. _

I pick up my glass and swirl the Scotch, trying to keep my emotions in check. I’m seething with anger just thinking about how I’ve been played. How I’ve failed myself. Dad taught me how to read people even before I was in high school. How could I not see that he was lying to me?

_ Maybe I should drive down to San Diego and pay him a friendly visit,  _ dad suggests, and pulls me out of my self-doubt, a place where I really don’t want to be right now.

_ Don’t bother. He was killed in a training exercise last fall.  _ At the same time, both dad and I turn to look over at Logan, who just furrows his brow in response to our puzzled faces. _ Heard it through the grapevine. _

_ Now that sounds like one lucky coincidence. _

_ Poetic justice. What goes around comes around.  _ I take a sip from my Scotch and notice both Logan and dad narrowing their eyes at me, brows knitted. I place the glass back on the table and shrug my shoulders.  _ What? Excuse me that I can’t really bring myself to mourn the guy who played us all. _

Dad gives me his dad stare that tells me I’ve crossed the line. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. I know Logan’s Captain was a husband, a father, so there’s people out there in mourning. Been there, done that. I feel sorry for them. But what I can’t really bring myself to is forgetting and forgiving all the lies and the deceit. Not right now, at least. I know I have to find a way to let go of all this anger I’ve bottled up cause if I don’t, it’ll destroy me, it’ll destroy Logan and it’ll destroy us. We’ve all been down this road before, and I never ever want to walk that path again.

I can see dad’s spidey sense kick in. He crooks his head to his side and shakes it slightly - his non-verbal warning to tell me to stop right there. I knit my brow, then rub my fingers against my temple. Why do dads always have to be so damn annoying when they’re right? I roll my eyes upwards and plop back against the couch with my hands up in defeat. His reply to me is again a silent one. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and gives me a comforting smile. Then his expression shifts back to all business, and he turns over to Logan to start their one on one interrogation once again. 

_ The guy who offered you the undercover job. Do you remember his name? _

_ Yeah, Newman. He must’ve had a background in naval intelligence, I could tell from the badge he had on his uniform. _

_ You worked with him before? _

_ No. Never saw him before that. Also never saw him again after I left the States. I think he was just a messenger. _

_ But it’s a place to start. Do we book a ticket to Guantanamo if we do a background check on this guy? _

Logan shrugs, _ Probably not. Just remember you’re dealing with naval intelligence here, so tread carefully. _

_ Any more names from your time in Rammstein we need to check out? _

_ Abbott. Gibbons. Harrison. Those were the guys that briefed me on ISIS. Since I was introduced to them under my alias, I am not sure if those are even their real names. Abbott and Gibbons were supposed to be ONI, Harrison an outside contractor. Again, not sure if that was just part of the setup or not. _

_ Never hurts to check it out. Maybe we should also check you out. _

_ Me? _

_ Yeah, you,  _ dad repeats, receiving a confused stare from Logan in return.  _ Your alias. Track down who cooked up your history and what kind of trail you left where and when. _

_ Patrick O’Neill. That was my identity. _

Of course, I can’t keep my amusement about that choice of name for myself.  _ Spiffy name. You look exactly like a Paddy,  _ I hum, winking at him before I pick up my Scotch from the table _. _

_ Okay, so we got names. That’s a place to start. Logan, I gotta ask though. If you were sent undercover to an ISIS camp, how did you get out? I’m not particularly keen on having ISIS show up at my doorstep looking for you. _

_ I don’t think ISIS has the resources to track me down. They don’t even know who I really am or who sent me, so they won’t be a threat. But there are things I know that some other people could consider a threat to national security. _

I’m tempted to ask what, but I bite my lip. As a naval intelligence officer, all of his missions were classified, so of course he must have knowledge about a lot of things normal people aren’t supposed to know. He once told me that I’m far better off not knowing because with knowledge comes power and with power comes enemies. It’s a slippery slope between knowing just enough and knowing too much. I know that one from experience.

_ Do you really wanna stir up the hornet’s nest? Getting your life back is one thing, but vengeance is something entirely different, especially considering who we’re up against here. _

_ I can’t just let this go, Keith. This almost destroyed me. And at what cost? _

He looks over at me for a short moment, and I can’t really tell the expression on his face. Anger? Hurt? Frustration? His mouth curls into a short smile, so at least I know it’s not one of those three, before he turns his attention back to the Scotch in his hands and empties the glass, then picks up the bottle and pours himself another one.

_ I’m not saying we should drop this entirely,  _ dad starts, _ but let’s just take one step at a time, okay? Also take into account that there might be a point somewhere down the road when we have to stop investigating this or it’s gonna destroy this family. _

_ I don’t know if I can do that. _

_ Then you’ll have to find a way,  _ he warns him.  _ We all walked down that road before, and we’re still picking up a lot of the pieces. _

Dad pushes his almost empty glass over the table, indicating that he could need a refill, too. Logan is just about to screw the cap back on, so I empty my tumbler in one swig, and hold it out for him – I’m in for a new round of Scotch as well.

_ One thing I don’t understand,  _ Logan comments as he places the bottle back on the table after pouring, _ that body they found at the scene, how could that have been identified as being me? _

_ There wasn’t much left for a physical identification,  _ dad answers before I can, starting off yet another flip-flopping between them that doesn’t necessarily include me.  _ They ran a DNA test. It was matched against the sample the Navy kept of you. _

_ Who ran the test? The local Sheriff’s department or the Navy? _

_ The Navy did. The local lab was seriously backlogged and Langdon wanted to get this done quickly, so she handed it over to the Navy after your Captain offered. They returned the results in two days. _

_ So there’s three more leads to follow. Who was that body found in the car, how did it get there and how could the Navy match his DNA to mine? _

_ After everything you just told us about your CO, my best guess is that the test results were as bogus as his initial offer to actually have a DNA test done in the first place. _

_ We gotta find out who signed the test results, cause it sure wasn’t him. You think you can get a hand on the file? _

_ I’m pretty sure Langdon will allow us a peek once we tell her she’s been screwed over. _

_ And the body? _

The body. Pictures of dad and I in the morgue flood my memories, standing in that dim hallway, waiting for the coroner to come talk to us. The words I heard will probably haunt me forever.

_ I'm sorry you can't see him. – Trust me you don't want to. – Keep him in your memories the way you remember him. – There’s nothing much to recognize. – We need his DNA to identify him. – Do you have something of his we can use as a match, like a toothbrush? _

Silently, I get up from the couch. This is just too much to bear right now. I walk out into the hallway and slump against the wall, resting my head in my hands. Why didn't I insist on seeing the body? Why did I just back down and accept what I've been told? No matter how badly that body must’ve looked, I would've known that it wasn't Logan when I saw it. In my heart, I just would have.

This is just one of the  _ shouldas _ I’ve been mulling over since that day. I should've gone to see the body. Instead, I listened to my dad, I listened to Wallace.  _ Don't do this, Veronica. The last memory you want of Logan is of your wedding, not of his body lying on a steel table in the morgue. _ I backed down. I never requested to see the body.

Dad and Wallace took care of most of the funeral arrangements. I just couldn't deal. We had a service I don't remember much of, most of it is just a haze. Somehow I'm glad for that, because the parts I do remember, I want nothing but to forget. Logan's picture on an easel, a simple flower arrangement hanging from the edge. A Navy chaplain praising his life and his service. That goddamn flag they folded and handed to me.

There was no casket. Upon suggestion of the coroner, the body was cremated. We buried the urn a week later. Just dad, Wallace, Dick, Mac and I. Standing in front of a small stone plaque in the grass as the dirt was shoveled into a small hole next to a bouquet of white lilies, covering what I thought was left of the man I loved more than life itself. 

_ Sweetheart. _

I look up and see dad standing in front of me. He has that look of comfort on his face that's always made me feel understood and cared for as long as I can remember. He puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently.

_ I think Logan needs some company. _

That’s just his way of telling me he doesn’t want me to be alone right now. He places a tender kiss on the top of my head before he vanishes down the hallway towards his bedroom. I look after him shortly, then take a deep breath and rise in order to head back into the living room. I see Logan leaning back on the couch, running his hands over his face. He’s in a state somewhere between more-than-just-slightly drunk and absolutely tired. A glance at the clock tells me it’s close to 1am – we’ve spent way more time talking than I anticipated.

I hold out my hand to him, waiting for him to lace his fingers with mine and gather me into his arms. This urgent need to feel his warm body against mine demands to be answered, reassuring me that he is indeed very much alive. He responds by pulling me down into his lap, wrapping his arms around me as he flips both of us to the side, bringing me down on top of him as he stretches out on the couch.

He pulls me in for a kiss, and I respond readily but realize immediately, he’s not in for the long run. While my irresistible charm was usually enough to get his undivided attention, his mind currently seems to be elsewhere. So if all he wants to do is cuddle, I guess I’ll settle for that. 

I place my head against his chest as I make myself comfortable in his embrace. His elbow is resting against my shoulder, his hand gently stroking my hair while I listen to the faint  _ thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump _ of his beating heart. It’s been a long time since we’ve done this – me wrapped securely in his arms, doing nothing but reveling in the stillness of the peaceful night around us.

_ 441 days,  _ he says wearily.

441 days... It’s not that I’ve been counting really, but somehow I know that it’s been 441 days since that short weekend getaway to Catalina Island on Big Dick’s boat – the last time we really could be just us before all this shit hit the fan. Curled up under a blanket on deck, Logan spooning me, and we were doing nothing but watching the clear night sky and listening to the waves crashing around us. A short moment of tranquility with nothing to worry about. That night was ours, and ours only.

I absentmindedly play with my necklace, twisting the pendant between my fingers. It’s a habit I picked up a long time ago. I wore Lilly’s necklace for the better of four years. Every time when life was a bitch and I needed a reminder that I can be strong enough to cope, I reached for the sparkly star pendant. It was my tether, what kept me grounded.

When I left my life in Neptune behind and headed to Stanford, I also left behind Lilly’s necklace. I needed a new start, and my tether, the one that reminded me of everything that had turned me into the person I didn’t want to be anymore, was no longer welcome.

Nine years down the road, the day of my birthday, I woke up to find a little red box sitting on the doormat in front of my apartment door. The note simply said,  _ Happy Birthday. L.  _ Even though he was halfway across the globe flying off an aircraft carrier in the Persian Gulf, he hadn’t forgotten. What I found inside the box was a necklace with a golden pendant of Joan of Arc. I’ve been wearing that necklace ever since, and once in a while, I find myself twisting that pendant in order to remind myself that I can be strong just like her.

_ I never told you why I picked that one for you _ , Logan says quietly, his face partially buried in my hair.

_ Because I was a teenage witch?  _ I answer, tilting back my head to look at him.

He just shakes his head lightly,  _ Joan of Arc was one of the strongest and fiercest women in her time and stood up for what she believed in without caring what others thought about her. ‘One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it. But to sacrifice what you are and to live without belief, that is a fate more terrible than dying.’ _

_ Oh, now I really know you’re drunk. You’re quoting Medieval Literature. _

I laugh and pat his chest before I move slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position to snuggle up against him. I place my head in his nook, and his arms find their way around my body immediately, cocooning me in a comforting embrace. 441 days. We can have this back. We just need to take it.

I must have dozed off at some point because pictures of fire and dust start flooding my mind, the ground beneath my feet shaking, and my body starts to quiver and tremble. My eyes snap open, and I immediately realize it’s not my body that’s shaking, it’s the body resting against mine. Logan’s head is tilting from side to side, his fingers are clenching the back of my shirt – I can see he’s having a nightmare. His lips are tightly pressed together, and tears are forming at the corners of his eyes. I’ve seen him struggling, crying, breaking down. Yet, there was still always that sense of self-control, that last barrier that kept him in check. This - I’ve never seen him like this before – so not-in-control.

I turn over, now lying fully on top of him. My hands cup his face, trying to still his movements, as I whisper,  _ Logan. Wake up. _

He’s slowly settling down, and then finally opens his eyes. They dart around the room for a second before they focus on me. I see confusion wash over his face.

_ I’m here,  _ I tell him, as I try to give him a comforting smile to reassure him that he’s safe and that everything is alright.

_ Veronica? _

He takes a deep breath, before he slips out from under me with a simple  _ I gotta get some air.  _ He wipes the tears from his eyes with his hand, and he’s out the back door before I even fully realize what’s just happened. I’m slowly understanding why he wanted three days without diving into the specifics of his time in the Middle East. It’s haunting him – just as his death has haunted me.

I give him some time on his own before I decide to pick up our glasses and the bottle of Scotch and head outside to join him. He’s sitting on the stairs of the back porch, staring off aimlessly into the night sky. I place the tumblers and the Scotch next to him, before I sit down as well. That’s when I notice the jimmy in his hand. I know where that came from… and I’m not sure if I should thank Dick for giving that to Logan or if I should curse him to hell and back.

I know it’ll take the edge off and calm his nerves, so in a way, it’s probably the thing he needs right now. But there’s this irrational part of me that believes I should be the one to calm him, to take the edge off, and not the weed. Silently, he holds out the bud. Oh, what the hell. If he’s gonna get baked, so will I. I take the joint and draw a long, hard breath. Logan doesn’t say a word as I puff. He just reaches for the Scotch, pours each of us a drink, and then takes a big swig out of his glass.

_ Maybe I did have some asinine death wish when I agreed to infiltrate ISIS,  _ he finally says as he takes another sip.

I hand the weed back to him, then pick up my glass and down the contents in one go. I don’t like where this is headed. I’ve rarely seen him so vulnerable, and it scares the shit out of me.

_ You know I wanna tell you about the last year, right?  _ he says as he twists the bud between his fingers.

I know, yes. And truth is, I want him to tell me because I can see it’s tormenting him, and I wanna help him get through it. Half the weight, half the burden. But I promised not to probe and push his buttons, so I’ll try not to. It will be hard sitting on the sideline not being able to help, but I’ve learned to trust him – trust him that he tells me what he feels is necessary to tell when he’s ready and keep to himself what he feels is not. He just needs his own pace and his own timing which may not always be my pace or my timing. But as long as there are no lies between us, I’ve learned to more or less manage.

_ If you don’t wanna tell me, then you don’t tell me. Easy as that. I’m a big girl. I learned to live with you not being able to talk. I’m cool. _

I reach over to take another draw of the weed. Inhaling deeply, I feel my muscles relax and the weight of the world being lifted from my shoulders, even if only for the next few hours. Yup. No cursing Dick. Need to thank him for this.

Logan sighs, his eyes darting up to the night sky. _ We’ve been down this road before. Me not telling, you not being cool with it. _

_ I’ve been cool about it ever since you joined ONI. Never probed you about any of your trips to Afghanistan? Somalia? Liberia? _

_ No shit, Sherlock.  _ He turns to face me and runs a hand down my face.  _ I really wanna tell you – I’m just afraid you won’t like what you hear about me. About the things I’ve done. _

_ Logan, you’re the guy who bashed in my headlights with a tire iron. You’re the guy who brought liquid X to Shelly’s party. And you’re the guy who gave my ex-boyfriend three broken ribs, a split lip and a shiner over something that wasn’t even his fault. You did a lot of shitty things – to me and to others. Yet, here I am. _

I hand him back the joint, and he eagerly takes it, sucking hard on the bud before puffing the smoke into the night.

_ That was the old me that couldn’t hold on to you because of all those fucked-up things. The current me, that’s the one that really needs you to know that putting you through everything that happened the last year really wasn’t my choice. I can’t lose you again. I wouldn’t survive that. But everything I have told you so far just sounds so… lame.  _

I push the Scotch out of the way and scoot closer to him. Studying him for a moment, I then place my arms around his neck, tip my head back just a bit and try to give him my best Hollywood impression in order to at least lighten the mood a bit. I’m in for the long run, and even though I think he already knows that in his heart, I know that he needs to hear it from me right now as there seems to be some sort of disjointed miscommunication going on between his heart and brain.

_ Listen to me, mister. You’re my knight in shining armor. Don’t you forget that. You’re going to get back on that horse, and I’m going to be right behind you, holding on tight, and we’re gonna go, go, go. _

_ I usually don’t get the Katherine Hepburn treatment unless we’re five tequilas in and high as fuck,  _ he snorts and kisses the tip my nose.

_ Scotch, tequila... one’s as good as the other,  _ I reply nonchalantly as I rest my forehead against his. I inhale sharply, taking in the smell that is so unmistakably Logan. Cedar and sandalwood with a hint of seawater and orange. And just a whiff of pot.

_ We’re not the same anymore that we were back then. You tell me or you don’t tell me. I’ll be fine with whatever it is you decide. And I promise you won’t lose me. It’s gonna take a lot more than a bomb and some fucked-up highly secret covert sting to make me walk away. _

I kiss him, and he responds with such an intensity that I need to tighten my hold on him so I won’t lose myself in his kiss completely. The side effect of smoking pot – it always makes Logan horny as hell. It usually takes a bit longer than tonight’s fifteen minutes and a couple of draws though for him to reel me in and ask me to surrender to his mercy.

_ I’ll tell you. Just not tonight,  _ he drawls, nibbling on my earlobe as his hand slips under my shirt, fingers sprawling on my lower back. Trailing kisses along my neck, he soon finds his way back to my lips before he covers my mouth with his again. He once told me that it’s this hunger for me that makes him feel alive, makes him feel connected. It’s also what makes me feel alive – his hands roaming my body, his lips slipping over my bare skin, his breath tingling against my face.

His hand snakes from my back to my butt, and he lifts me up ever so slightly, letting me know he wants me to move. I raise up on my knees with the intention of straddling him, when he swiftly turns me around and pulls me down to sit between his legs. His arms envelop me and his chin comes to rest on my shoulder as he buries his nose in my hair.

_ You’re a regular Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde tonight,  _ I huff in frustration. He can’t turn me on like that, only to flip around and request nothing but a cuddle. Don’t get me wrong, cuddling with Logan is never a bad thing, but when he sets me on fire, he needs to make damn sure he also extinguishes the flame he ignited and turn this into a cuddle fuck.  __

His response isn’t one of his usually cocky remarks or the slam dunk I so desperately crave which again tells me he’s not his usual self tonight. For the last three days, I had my Logan back, the one with those loose lips, snarky, on point while at the same time smart, in control, caring. This Logan – he’s different. Something’s out of sync, broken, and I am not sure how to fix it. It almost feels as if he’s clinging to me so he won’t lose himself.

_ Your dad’s gonna kill me for smoking pot with you on his porch,  _ he smirks as he picks up the joint and takes a hard draw.

_ I think that’s probably number ten on Keith Mars’ list of ‘ten reasons to kill Logan Echolls’. _

_ Are you telling me getting stoned with his daughter ranks below getting kinky with his daughter? _

_ I think shagging me used to be on number five until it got replaced by dropping E with me. _

_ Oh, he does differentiate. Interesting. _

I laugh,  _ pass the blunt, dude. _

He obliges and hands me what’s left of the spliff, then reaches for his Scotch again and takes a sip, watching me take a final draw before I stub out the roach and push it into that small crack between the floorboards. I hear the clinking sound when Logan puts his tumbler down on the porch, and feel him shifting positions behind me. He fumbles with something in his back pocket, and eventually pulls out his wallet, flips it open, and retrieves a picture. He twists it in his fingers for a moment, before he brings his arm around again, holding out the photo for me to see.

_ Wow,  _ I gasp, _ that brings back memories. _

It’s us, on the beach, sitting much like we are sitting now, his chin resting on my shoulder while his arms are protectively wrapped around me. Our seventeen-year-old selves after a long day of surfing and sunbathing out in Huntington Beach, trying to hide from everything that’s waiting for us back in Neptune. We’re wrapped together in a large beach towel, laughing as I try to take a selfie with my camera pointed at a weirdly crooked angle because my arm is just too damn short to fit us both into the frame. It isn’t until I’m firmly attached to his body, sitting half on and off his lap, my head tilted back just a bit to level with his that I’m able to finally get both of us into the picture without either cutting off the top of his head or the side of my face. We look so content in that picture, so much in love.

_ Look at that spunky hairdo,  _ I hum as I trace my finger around his face in the photo.

_ The chicks digged it,  _ he replies, and he’s really not far off. I really did dig his messy haircut, just because it wasn’t the perfectly combed classic taper that most 09ers were rocking back then. A bit too much American Crew, hair sticking up in pretty much every direction. It was a perfect mirror of Logan’s personality. Spunky. Messy. Wild.

_ Maybe I should grow my hair out again,  _ he muses and ruffles the top of his hair so the now rather short strands stand in pretty much every direction.

_ Oh no!  _ I warn him as I turn around and gently run my fingers through his hair, smoothing out the mess he’s created. Adult Logan doesn’t need the spunky, messy, wild haircut anymore that his teenage self kept all the way through high school and college. He’s not the kid anymore that needs to prove that he’s not your run-of-the-mill rich kid – he’s anything but.

_ Keep the crew cut.  _ Neat, proper, with just a bit of bravado at the front. That’s who he is.  _ Makes you look all serious and grown-up. _

He taps his thumb against the picture, bringing my attention back to the photograph.  _ That girl was seriously into my hairdo. _

_ Really? She doesn’t strike me as that kinda girl. _

_ Yup, kept running her fingers through my hair whenever she got a chance.  _ And of course, I proved his point even before he pointed it out ever so nonchalantly. But he has to mention it again, just for my benefit. _ Was really distracting at times because she couldn’t keep her hands off me. _

_ Maybe she was just trying to smooth out all that American Crew? _

_ Trust me, she loved the spikey hair. I was told she had a thing for the bad boys. And that made me look all badass. _

I nudge him with my elbow, enticing a playful wince from him before he places a kiss against the side of my neck. With a chuckle, I take the photo from his hand, running my fingers over the rough surface marked with creases and spots. It’s old and worn, much used and apparently, much loved.

_ Seriously. Junior year? You have a picture of our seventeen-year-old selves in your wallet and I didn’t know about it? Where did you even find that? _

_ I am pretty good at hiding things I don’t want people to find. _

_ Says the guy who ordered a surprise birthday gift for his girlfriend off Amazon and had it delivered to her office under her name. _

_ See, that’s what happens when before-mentioned girlfriend is really distracting me by playing with my hair while I’m trying to order her the perfect birthday present on my phone. My mind goes into the gutter and I can’t focus on the important things anymore and check off the wrong delivery address. Men’s minds are weak. _

His nose nuzzles the spot behind my ear, his lips are gently brushing against my skin – oh, I know what he’s trying to do. His mind is definitely on its way into the gutter. What did I say about getting stoned turning him horny? We’re on our way to that cuddle fuck he still owes me, but I’m not gonna let him off that easy. You do it to me, I do it to you. I tilt my head to my side, lift up my shoulder, and deny him access to that side of my neck which results in a frustrated groan from him. 

_ You’re dodging the question, smartass. Why that one? _

I flick my finger against the picture, trying to bring his attention back to the photo. His hand slips over my stomach and comes to rest on my hip, fingers gently stroking my pelvis. He’s doing it again… oh hell, we can play on first base if he wants, but advancing to second will have to wait a little.

_ That’s the girl I fell in love with,  _ he murmurs and places his other hand on top of mine, brushing his thumb first over the back of my hand, then over the picture, caressing the cheek of my likeness in the photo _. Epic love story and all, you know. Seventeen years later, and she still smells of marshmallows and promises. _

His nose is nuzzling my neck again, and this time I let him.

_ Mmmm,  _ I breath as I reach up and place my hand on the back of his neck, letting my fingers trace circles along the nape. _ I thought she'd traded for S’Mores and compromises. _

_ Nope,  _ he draws out the  _ p _ , popping his lips against my skin, _ still marshmallows and promises. That’s never gonna change. _

_ Really, it’s S’Mores with all the added layers and flavors. _

_ I guess we just have to agree to disagree on this one.  _ He places a kiss behind my ear before he turns his attention back to the photo.  _ That girl wasn’t just any girl. She was  _ the  _ girl. _

The _ girl, huh? _

_ Yeah. The keeper. Took me for a wild ride. Lots of detours on the way. But look at me, seventeen years later, and I can call that girl my wife. _

I chuckle,  _ Seventeen years…. Those two had no idea what they signed up for back then. _

_ Thank God they didn’t. I think they never would’ve jumped on the bandwagon if they did. Which really would have been a shame. _

_ Because you would’ve missed out on all the heartbreak? _

_ I would’ve missed out on all the hot and heavy breakup-makeup sex. That was always amazing. More than amazing. Fucking breathtaking. In every sense of the word. _

I turn my head slightly, trying to catch a glance of that smug grin on his face that I know he’s donning,  _ Past tense? _

_ We’ve gone from on and off to steady since 2016. The we’re-exclusive sex is still pretty good though. Better than good actually. Amazing. Mind-blowing. Sensational. Spectacular. Heart-stopping. Kinky. Pervy even. Want me to go on? Cause I still have a few more expletives up my sleeve. _

I laugh and place a quick kiss on his cheek.  _ You’re such a perv. _

_ I take that as a compliment. You know,  _ the tone in his voice suddenly changes, and I can feel his body tense just a smidge, _ it’s the only thing in my wallet that survived the blast. The edges got a bit singed, but other than that…  _ He traces his finger around the rigid edges of the photo.  _ That girl always looked out for me, even when I didn’t deserve it. _

I thought we left the melancholy part of the night behind us when the joint came into play, but apparently, I’m wrong. Gotta rectify that. No more sullen looks, no more somber memories, no more sinister thoughts. At least not for tonight. I push myself up which immediately results in a groan from Logan at the loss of body contact. He grabs for me, his sole intention to pull me back into his embrace. I comply, but it’s not until I’ve turned around and bracketed his legs with my knees that I sink down on his lap again. My palms cup his face, demanding his undivided attention, which I’m granted immediately.

_ She’s still looking out for you. And you deserve every second of it. Always have. _

_ Do I?  _ There’s this tremor in his voice that always creeps in when he’s getting all emotional and doubting himself. _ I wasn’t particularly nice to her at times. And yet, I could always count on her. Even after nine years of radio silence. _

No more heartbreak tonight. I just can’t deal with anymore shit thrown my way. I’m checking out at least until sunlight, and I’m sure as hell taking Logan with me.

_ Every single second of it.  _ I draw his face towards mine and place a tender kiss on his lips. _ And just so you know, in that picture? That’s the boy that girl fell madly in love with. Head over heels, bad case of butterflies in the stomach, all the works. _

His lips curl into a smile, and that darkness that I saw flickering in his eyes is replaced with that glint of mischief I notice whenever his mind wanders off to wherever a guy’s mind wanders off to when they think about sex. My thumb brushes gently over the creases at the corner of his mouth while I close the distance between us, moving just enough so my breasts barely graze his chest. I hope he takes the hint.

_ Butterflies, huh?  _ His hands slip over my back and come to rest on my butt again.  _ Do you remember when? _

Yup, he’s completely understood my maybe not so subtle hint.

_ When I fell for you?  _ I inquire, lazily trailing a finger down his chest.

We've played this game of  _ when did you fall in love with me  _ so many times before - with or without booze, weed or worse involved. I think the first time, we were huddled against each other on his bed at the Grand with a pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. Housekeeping must've had field day with the mess we created that night.

_ Yeah,  _ Logan gulps just when I hook my hand behind his belt, teasingly grazing his skin as I run my fingers slowly towards his hip bone. He’s twitching under my touch, and I can feel his grip on my ass tightening. Ding, ding, ding, jackpot. My irresistibly charming qualities strike again. Men’s minds are indeed weak.

_ Do you remember when you fell in love with me?  _ I drawl, seductively gliding my tongue over my bottom lip.

_ Now who’s dodging questions here. _

He pulls me in, closing that last inch of space between us and traps me in an embrace that doesn’t give me a lot of room to move. I can feel his hand slide up the curve of my bum, around my waist and come to rest on my side, fingers seductively caressing that section of bare skin my shirt fails to cover.

_ Sorry to disappoint you, lover boy, but you didn’t just snap your fingers and make me fall for you. Didn’t work that way. _

_ You mean I can’t take pride in the fact that I was such a good kisser that I swept you off your feet, made you all dizzy and ran off with your heart? _

Ah, the ever-charming tease that is Logan Echolls. An overconfident ego, mixed with a smidge of arrogance. That’s just one of the things I love about him.

_ Nope. _

_ So tell me,  _ his lips are almost grazing mine as he talks,  _ what awesomely sappy moments can I pride myself with that made Veronica Mars fall in love with me? _

_ You’re most definitely high as a kite,  _ I chuckle _. _

_ And drunk,  _ he places a kiss on my lips, _ I think,  _ another one on my jawbone,  _ we’ve already,  _ one against my throat, _ established,  _ on my neck, _ that.  _ He pulls back, giving me a wickedly sexy grin. _ So? No dodging. You tell, I tell. _

_ I told you there was no one single moment. _

_ I said moments,  _ he draws out the  _ s _ with a long, sizzling sound, _ So what did I do, smarty pants? _

_ Fine, if you must know. _

I tip back my head in annoyance, giving him full access to my throat in hopes that he will take on the offer. He doesn’t disappoint, his teeth gently grazing my skin as he starts to playfully nibble on my jawline.

_ Oh, I must,  _ he mumbles as he sucks on my skin, eliciting a guttural moan from me. God, the things this guy does to me… how much I’ve missed them. 

_ You’re a marshmallow, Mr. Echolls. _

_ I’m a marshmallow?  _ He pulls back, giving me a pretend look of surprise and hurt.

_ Yeah, a marshmallow. Tough in the outside, soft on the inside. Okay,  _ I wriggle my butt in his lap, scooting back just a fraction, so I can place my palms against his chest,  _ tell-it-all it is. I fell in love with you somewhere between you beating up a federal agent,  _ my hands are slowly trailing upwards, _ because you thought I needed to be rescued, my ever so charming knight in shining armor,  _ they glide over his collarbone, _ and you basically telling everyone to fuck off,  _ slip over the curve of his shoulders, _ if they didn’t like me as your girlfriend,  _ and come to rest on his shoulder blades, _ which was incredibly hot. _

_ Man,  _ he rasps, faking exasperation,  _ and I really thought all those make out sessions in the girls’ bathroom were the actual turn on. _

The making out in public restrooms part is usually the first major turn on point when this game starts moving past second base. When ripping off each other’s clothing isn’t really an option at this stage, either his hand will end up in my pants within the next three sentences, or mine will end up in his. That’s just how this game’s played.

_ The first time sure was an eye-opening lesson. _

_ You know it’s all about physics. The perfect angle,  _ he props up one leg,  _ traction,  _ his thumb hooks into a belt loop on my jeans, jerking me towards him,  _ pressure, _ his hands slips between us, the heel tightly pressed against my crotch,  _ and friction,  _ he runs his hand back and forth in a slow, but steady rhythm.

Okay, so he wants to have the upper hand this time. Mmmmh, let’s see if he can handle me tonight. I’m not going down without a fight. I grind my body against his, matching the rhythm of his movement as I trap his hand between us, guiding him with my rocking hips and thus, forcing him to not only stroke the nether regions of my body, but also massage himself.

_ As far as I remember, you failed physics your junior year and had to take summer classes. _

_ And those summer classes taught me extremely well. _

They taught him exceptionally well. While Logan may not have been the first boy I had sex with, he was the first to send me over the edge - in the extremely large and comfy backseat of a bright yellow SUV parked in the empty parking lot of Neptune High. His hand in my panties, his fingers dipping in and out of me, first in a teasingly slow manner which transformed into an agonizingly swift rhythm, applying just the right amount of pressure in just the right spots at exactly the right time. I tumbled over the brink, calling out his name over and over while he cradled me in his lap, rocking his hand against me, drawing out my climax for as long as he could. No one ever quite managed to pleasure me just the way he does. And he fucking knows it.

_ Don’t flatter yourself,  _ I admonish him and slowly pull his hand out between our bodies, causing an audible grown of displeasure. 

_ Please allow me my five seconds of pride about the fact that I’ve just been told that my seventeen-year old self was such a stallion that making out on a public bathroom sink was a mind-blowing revelation. _

I pinch his side to which he responds by slipping the hand I’ve just removed from my body in the waistband of my jeans, tickling that spot just above my hip bone that he knows will drive me almost insane. I curl my fingers around his wrist, trying to stop him, but he just splutters out an evil laugh and dips his hand even further into my pants. His fingers graze lazily over my skin, and as fast as he has slipped his hand inside, he withdraws.

_ Spoilsport,  _ I sulk, and rub my body against his, enticing just the reaction from him that I‘m anticipating. He’s growing harder by the minute, and I confess, I’m having a tad bit too much fun with this than I should have outside on the porch.

Logan’s hands fly to my hips, stilling my movement. He looks at me with a warning intensity, telling me that we can’t keep on playing this game of teasing and groping out here in the open. I know we need to take this back inside, preferably to the bedroom. Well, most definitely to the bedroom, and behind a securely closed door. He starts to get up, but I shake my head at him and push him back down. He keeps forgetting that this game isn’t yet over. 

_ What was my big moment when I so skillfully ripped your heart out and ran off with it?  _ I receive an irritated groan from him.  _ I tell, you tell. That’s the deal. _

_ Fine,  _ he relents and reaches for my hands in a desperate attempt to keep me from touching him anywhere below the waistline. His fingers lace with mine, and he brings one hand up to his lips, placing a tender kiss against the back.

_ I think it was somewhere between ‘ _ your mother was always nice to me’ _ and ‘ _ I loved Lilly’.  _ My hormone struck teenage brain checked out completely when you almost started to cry. It was such a revelation. Veronica Mars indeed had feelings. _

_ It’s all about keeping up appearances,  _ I quip.

_ And that’s exactly why no one will ever play poker with you again. _

_ C’mon, I’m a pro. Take me to Vegas, put me with the high rollers, and this poker face here,  _ I airdraw a circle around my face with my finger,  _ will getcha all you want. _

_ Glad we got that covered, _ he laughs.

He picks up his Scotch and takes one big gulp, emptying the glass in one go. He then flashes me a devilishly wicked smile as his free hand slips around my waist, dips into my pants and sprawls out on my butt, giving it a light squeeze. He winks at me as he jerks me closer, then narrows in on me before his lips come crashing down on mine.

I can hear the tumbler clinking as it's dropped onto the floorboards just before his hand finds its way to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as he deepens the kiss. I can still taste the Scotch on his lips, and I can’t stop myself licking off the remnants, savoring the mix of Logan and Scotch. This most definitely means game over and I can finally claim my well-deserved prize – that cuddle fuck he stills owes me. I’ve earned it fair and square. 

_ Bed?  _ Logan rasps as he pulls back just enough, his lips barely brushing against mine.

_ Who’s asking? _

He flicks his eyes upwards, reflecting for a moment, before he says,  _ Dr. Jekyll has left the building. _

_ Well, then, Mr. Hyde – bed? _


	2. Chapter 2

I can't really tell what time it is when I wake up the next morning. My mind's eerily awake while my body is still in deep slumber. Going back to sleep? No can do. Wakey wakey, body, rise and shine. Well, screw you, mind. 

My head's throbbing, reminding me that all that Scotch and weed probably wasn't such a good idea. I don’t want to admit it, but I’m probably getting too old for all that shit. I smooth my tangled hair out of my face, blink my eyes and am greeted immediately by the bright sunlight that is shining through the window... Drawing the blinds completely sure wasn't on our mind when we stumbled into the bedroom last night.

I take a deep breath, then let out a soft moan. Too much oxygen too fast. It feels as if the room around me is spinning, so I flop over on my stomach and bury my face in my pillow - anything to make the sickening feeling stop. The body next to me starts to stir, and an arm snakes around my waist as Logan nestles against me, his chin resting on my shoulder.

_Good morning, sunshine,_ he mumbles sleepily into the pillow, and I can't really make out if he's being sarcastic or not. _Time?_

Definitely sarcastic. I can’t remember the last time Mr. Earlybird had to ask for the time in the morning. 

_Way too early,_ I reply and pull the sheets up to my chin. The air-conditioning kicks in with a whizzing sound, and the cool breeze sends me into a slight shiver. I probably should've put on more than just panties before we settled down to get some actual sleep.

I can feel him lift his head as the pillow next to mine shifts. A moment later, his head flops down on that same pillow again with a loud and annoyed groan.

_What's the verdict?_ I ask, knowing that he probably didn't like what he read on the alarm clock on the nightstand.

_8:18,_ he replies. _Honey, coffee would be an awesome start to the day._

_The machine’s in the kitchen._

_Naked, please._

_Do you mean me or the coffee?_ I chuckle, as he nuzzles my neck tenderly. His hand slips over the curve of my hip, fingers splaying over the side of my chest. He pulls me closer, and soon after, I find myself cocooned in a tight embrace. Placing a quick kiss on my bare shoulder, he inhales sharply.

_Coffee. I meant coffee. But I like keeping my options open._

I turn my head so he can actually see the mix of amusement and irritation on my face, and huff, _fancy anything else, milord?_

_A bagel maybe? With loads of cream cheese, please._

_I'm not your lady servant._

_Hey, I said please. Twice._

_Like that makes it any better._

He gives me a sleepy smile, then buries his face back in his pillow. I sigh, and lift my hand to cup his face, my thumb gently brushing his cheek. Logan revels in the moment, then reaches up and picks up my hand.

_I could really do with a coffee, my lady servant,_ he groans as he laces his fingers with mine.

_How about breakfast in bed?_

_That would be absolutely marvelous._

I roll onto my side and prop my head up on my elbow. _Bagels should be next to the toaster oven if dad’s left any. Cream cheese I think is in the fridge. And if you see some bacon in there, scrambled eggs would be really nice as well._

_Rock, paper, scissors._

I roll my eyes, _Are you serious? I'm not gonna rock, paper, scissors over who's making breakfast._

I don’t see it coming when Logan suddenly moves towards me, flips me on my back and pins me under him, his hands holding on tightly to my wrists as he looms over me with a devilish grin.

_I thought you were craving coffee,_ I muse, biting down on my lower lip to hide my amused grin.

_Uh huh,_ he murmurs, and emphasizes his reply with a simple nod, _and a cream cheese bagel. But I also said I'd like to keep my options open._

_You just don’t want to confess you still can’t work dad's fancy coffee maker properly,_ I taunt him, and he rolls his eyes at me, groaning lightly. 

_You need a degree in freaking engineering to figure out how to get a single cup of coffee out of that monstrosity._

I lift my head up and place a quick kiss on his lips, _You owe me._

_Cream cheese bagel?_

_Then you owe me double._

_Anything, my love._

He lets go off my hands and allows me to scoot out of bed. I grab a pair of pyjama shorts and a fresh tank top out of the drawer and quickly get dressed under the watching eyes of one Logan Echolls. I slip on the shirt and turn over my shoulder to look back at him, just to find him lying in bed with his head propped up, a broad grin on his face.

_What?_

_Just adoring the view my absolutely gorgeous and sexy wife is giving me. Adorable hangover look included,_ he teases me, chuckling. _Tangled hair, puffy face, dark circles under the eyes…._

I groan and pick up the first thing I can get my hands on, which happens to be Logan's discarded shirt from last night that's hanging from the edge of the dresser. I crumple it into a cloth ball and throw it at his face.

_Keep that up and you won't get either a coffee or a bagel._

He untangles the shirt and leans over, swatting my thigh with it just as I'm about to open the door.

_Hurry, my lady servant._

_Decaf,_ I grumble, knowing fully well that Logan loathes any coffee that isn't strong enough to walk, _you could definitely do with less caffeine._

_Decaf I can live with but if the cream cheese is low fat and berry flavored, I'll divorce you._

I blow him a raspberry as I hear the faint grinding sound of the coffee machine from the kitchen. Dad's already up and about, so I pull the door closed behind me and step out into the hallway. He doesn't need to see a half-naked Logan in my bed, married or not. Some things should stay behind closed doors.

I run my fingers through my hair, trying to untangle a few knots as I walk into the kitchen. Dad’s standing at the counter, cup of coffee in one hand, his head hidden behind the newspaper he holds in the other. Good ol’ dad, traditional as ever... not trading the paper news for the digital version on his phone. That's most likely never gonna change.

_Look who's decided to join the living,_ he nods in my direction and takes a sip from his coffee.

_No rest for the wicked,_ I reply and move around the counter to the coffee machine where a freshly brewed cup’s already waiting for me. I pick it up, my fingers tightly curling around the warm mug.

_Color me surprised when I found the Scotch bottle nearly empty this morning._

_May I remind you there were three glasses on the table?_

I get an empty cup from the shelf above the coffee maker, place it under the spout and program the machine for a coffee, extra-strong, double-size, then press the button to brew a cup for Logan. The machine starts whizzing and bubbling before the hot black liquid starts pouring into the mug.

_But only two made it to the back porch,_ I can hear dad rambling behind me. _And this._

I turn around, coffee cup at my lips, and see him reach for something that's laying on the stool next to him. A moment later, he holds up my shirt with a grin, his eyes narrowing in on me. I roll my eyes and snatch it out of his hand immediately. 

_That sure wasn't on the porch._

_No, this I found out in the hallway. Wonder how it ended up there._

I have an inkling how it may have ended up there... Two steps into my bedroom, and we were already both half-naked after Logan flung his shirt to one side and I threw mine in the other. Given that his ended up on top of the dresser, mine must have flown out into the hallway before we actually managed to close the door behind us. Reminder: must aim better next time.

_You had a pleasant night’s sleep?_

I place my coffee on the counter and turn to reach for the door of the fridge. 

_Depends._

I'm poking my head inside, in search of something edible for breakfast. Dad's a creature of habit, meaning if it isn't eggs, bacon or frozen breakfast burritos, it won't be in the fridge unless either I put it in there or he had one of his rare epiphanies that he needs to treat his daughter to her choice of breakfast once in a while. I definitely should've stocked up on breakfast items as well when I stopped at the store last night as the inside of the fridge is staring back at me eerily empty. I finally pull out a container of milk that’s been open I don't know how long, a still-sealed package of cream cheese that I put in there before I headed out for my latest stint of cases - I hope it hasn't expired yet - and a bowl of fresh strawberries that I'm pretty sure I have to thank Charlotte for. I put everything on the counter and notice that dad is thoroughly checking me out. 

_Hmmm, tangled hair, no bra, and is that a hickey on your neck?_ he muses, slightly amused. 

My hand unconsciously starts rubbing a certain spot in the crook of my neck that may have gotten a little bit too much attention from Logan last night. It’s the spot he likes to peck and nibble when he’s spooning me. Probably wasn't the best idea to pick a slim-fit tank this morning that does nothing to cover up the fact that I’m indeed bra-less and have the onset of a hickey on my shoulder. 

_I'd say my daughter most definitely got lucky last night,_ he goes on before taking another sip of coffee.

_Boundaries, dad,_ I warn him teasingly as I pick up the bag of bagels sitting next to the toaster oven and pop two inside.

_Walls are thin in this house, Veronica._

I roll my eyes at him. At eighteen, he made it a point to deliberately point out boyfriend time was over by midnight and each of us needed to keep their hands to themselves before that. And that didn’t even change over the years when I brought home the then-boyfriend and he so sweetly, but completely earnestly, informed him that the couch would have been his preferred sleeping quarters for him instead of my bed. Now, however, his attitude has changed to quite the contrary and he sure is having a tad too much fun teasing me about getting it on. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve crossed the magic three-oh and it’s now ok for me to have sex or if the overbearing father has finally accepted that his one and only daughter is living her own life. 

_I'm over twenty-one and married._

I wave the plates at him that I’ve just picked up from the shelf, then place them on the counter.

_And living in my guestroom,_ he points out as he folds the newspaper in half.

_I'm paying you rent._

_But you're slacking with the chores._

Knitting my eyebrows, I pick up my coffee again. _Told you to make a chart._

_So you can get a dollar for every chore you've checked off?_

_This isn't 1995 anymore. A dollar isn't gonna cut it. You gotta pay up, old man._

Dad places his mug in the sink when we're suddenly interrupted by a knock at the front door. He looks at me questioningly, but I can only give him a shrug in response while I sip on my coffee, as I have no idea who'd be gracing us with their presence on a Friday morning at half past eight. I'm not expecting company and going by the look on dad's face, neither is he.

_You do your chores,_ he points a finger at me as he starts to make his way towards the front door, _and I may forget about all that shouting and pounding and moaning and groaning coming from my guestroom last night._

_Over twenty-one and married!_ I call after him.

_My house, my rules!_ He shouts back as he vanishes around the corner towards the front door.

I shake my head slightly and go back to preparing a quick breakfast for Logan and me. The toaster oven dings, and I reach inside for the bagels. Ouch. Hot hot hot. I drop them on the counter and shake my fingers in the air when I realize their dark crusts. Damn, left them in a bit too long. Oh well, they'll still do. I'm about to grab the box of maple pecan crunch cereal from the shelf to make me a bowl with the hopefully-still-good milk when I hear dad calling for me.

_Veronica? Homeland Security's here asking for Logan!_

My head snaps toward the front of the house. Homeland Security? Asking for Logan? Shit. That can't be good. Logan said last night that there might be people out there looking for him but I didn't quite expect them knocking at our door before 9am the next morning. So whatever he got himself caught up in, it seems to be bigger than all of us probably ever imagined. After we’ve taken care of these goons, Logan will have a lot of explaining to do.

I place the cereal box on the counter and quickly slip the shirt dad picked up in the hallway over my tank. It's not like I'm properly dressed for a visit by a government agency in that either, but it’s still better than showing off a small purple hickey in a tank top that isn’t covering much when facing people who are looking for my not-so-dead-anymore husband. Smoothing out my hair to look at least halfway decent, I finally head to the door.

_What about Logan?_ I ask as I reach dad who's standing in the doorway, strategically blocking the entrance. I eye two guys in dark suits outside on the front porch. Mr. I-could-easily-pass-for-Hugh-Jackman on the right flashes me his badge while a very young version of Will Smith does the talking. “ _Here come the Men in Black_ ” suddenly starts playing in my head, and honestly, encounters paired with a corresponding soundtrack in my head? That’s never a good thing. 

_Ma’am, we're looking for Logan Echolls. We need to speak to him._

I raise my eyebrows, trying to put on the best look of surprise I can and snort, _Then you're most definitely in the wrong place. In case the memo hasn't reached all branches of government yet, Logan was killed last year. Try Pacific Coast Cemetery. And if you’re really serious about wanting to talk to him, bring a ghost whisperer or a halfway decent medium. You most definitely will need one or the other._

_We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way,_ Mr. Hugh Jackman doppelganger says. _Where is Logan Echolls?_

_Six feet under, plot 283, Pacific Coast Cemetery,_ I tell them nonchalantly, _And I'm sorry, but what did you say your names were?_

This time it's Will Smith who flashes me his badge.

_Special Agent Frost, this is Special Agent Capper. Mr. Echolls has vital information about a non-sanctioned military operation. His reappearance in the States has caused quite a disturbance. A lot of people are currently looking for him._

I just shrug my shoulders at them. _His reappearance in the States? As I said before, Logan died last year. Maybe you should rather question those people who fed you that crap about Logan having risen from the dead instead of wasting our time._

_I know you have a lot of questions and so do we. We're not the enemy. We're just trying to get to the bottom of all this and are offering our help. Will you at least please pass this on to him?_

_You can pass this on to him yourself. Let me just repeat that for you so can write it down this time - plot 283, Pacific Coast Cemetery. You can't miss it, it's right between a gravestone with a turtle on top and a dead old oak tree._

_He's got himself caught up in some dangerous shit,_ Capper seems to slowly lose his temper with me - I get the feeling he doesn't really appreciate my snark. _Like we said, we're not the enemy here._

Capper slips a hand into his jacket, obviously reaching for something stuffed in a pocket on the inside of this suit. The way his fingers disappear in behind the lapel, I can tell he’s most definitely not reaching for a gun. 

_You're not gonna blinga-ding us with that red thing-a-magic light now, are you? I'd_ really _like to remember all this so I can tell my friends that the Men in Black_ are _a real thing. Life imitates art and all. They'd really get a kick out of it._

He slowly pulls his hand back out of his jacket, a business card stuck between two fingers.

_Please give us a call when he makes contact._

I hesitate for a moment, not quite sure if I should take the card or not. Maybe it's best to play along for a bit and at least accept it. Groan, grin and bear, Veronica. You can always toss it later. But before I can take it, dad grabs the card from Capper's hand. 

_I know you usually keep all kinds of fancy gadgets in your secret vaults, so maybe you happen to have one of those technologically advanced revive-first-ask-questions-later widgets in there somewhere. Might come in pretty handy right now, seeing as you’re wanting to talk to a dead guy. If not, maybe those creepy little worm guys can help. I’ve heard they can get their hands on pretty much any technology that’s available in this universe,_ he snickers and twists the business card between his fingers. 

I'm having a hard time trying to stifle my laughter as dad closes the door right in the face of two very baffled special agents. I'm starting to count silently... I don't even get to three when we hear Tweedledee and Tweedledum shuffle off the front porch. I raise my hand in the air, and dad answers me with a high five. The Mars family strikes and scores. Booyah!

_So,_ dad starts off, giving me his I-told-you-so look, _it's not ISIS, I have to give that to Logan. But Homeland Security? I think the weather channel just upgraded today’s “a little windy” to a category five hurricane._

I raise my hands in the air, _I don't want to hear it, pops._

_What? I was merely suggesting we may need some stronger and better storm shutters than we anticipated. Just in case._

_I'll talk to Logan,_ I sigh and point my finger at him, _and you should give Cliff a call about those shutters. Maybe he has a few recommendations._

_Yes, ma’am._

He gives me a mock salute before he vanishes in the direction of the kitchen.

_Those bagels are mine,_ I shout after him as I make my way towards my bedroom, _don't you dare touch 'em!_

When Logan said last night there were people out there looking for him, I had expected it to be the Navy, but most certainly not the Feds. He was in the Middle East under military orders after all it seemed, and he removed himself from his command without permission... meaning he's currently AWOL. That's something the military doesn't take lightly, especially if the accused was part of a covert military operation. Homeland Security getting involved in this probably means their counter-terrorism task force has picked up something - which would go with Logan’s story of having been undercover with ISIS for the last few months. I can't really make heads or tails of all this. 

Then there's also that dead body that was found with my car and was officially identified by the Navy as Logan. Was that guy just an unfortunate bystander that no one misses or was this all planned well in advance and that body was deliberately placed there? How did whoever may have placed the body know there was a bomb in my car that would go off at exactly 5pm when _I_ wasn’t even aware the backpack left in the backseat was carrying explosives? Where did they get that body from? And how did they manage to pull Logan from the alley without anyone noticing? It didn’t take more than five minutes before the first fire truck arrived on scene, and even less for bystanders to gather around. How come no one noticed anything right there?

How could the Navy pass Logan off as dead so convincingly when, at the same time, the very same Navy sent a very much alive Logan off to Syria on a military mission that broke something inside of him? They played with him, manipulated him, pulled all the right strings to push him where they wanted and needed him. That's not the Navy I know and not the Navy Logan loved and cared about. So many loose ends and nothing really so far to tie them together. Getting to the bottom of this is gonna be one hell of a nightmare. 

When I walk back into my bedroom, Logan is still sprawled out on the bed. He’s flipped over onto his stomach, arms stretched wide on either side. His head has disappeared between two pillows, the sheets pulled up just above his waistline… giving me a clear view of his naked backside. His perfectly defined V-tapered back was always quite the eye candy. Looking at him now, most of the well-defined muscles are less toned, and the traces of what’s happened in the last year more than visible. 

It’s not the first time I’ve seen his body battered and bruised. I've seen the marks his father's belt left on his back. I've seen the bruises, the cigar burns and the cuts he left on his body. Logan was always good at making up the most elaborate excuses about how he'd gotten injured. He could make you believe in a heartbeat that a bruise his father had left on his shoulder in one of his fits was nothing but a hickey, a cut on his lower back the stupid result of a surfing accident and a cigar burn on the back of his thigh the hilarious reminder of a reckless night in TJ. He was getting in and out of fights constantly, so I believed the lies he told because I had no reason to doubt him - until the day he broke down crying in front of me and I could no longer look away. These cuts and bruises and burns... they all came and went, healed over time, never left a physical mark. 

But what I see on his back now will never leave, will never vanish without a trace. The badly burned patch of skin that starts just below his right shoulder blade, covering most of the area up to his neck. The scars left by shrapnel, some as tiny as a tag, some about the size of a match, scattered over his back. And of course the incision, shaped like a half moon where, as he told me, they've removed a piece of the drivers’ side mirror from his lower back. There's not going to be stories about surfing accidents or reckless nights out in Mexico to cover up for just how he's gotten all those marks. These scars will stay forever and remind us of what's been taken from and done to him. To us.

_Hey,_ I kneel down on the bed and place a hand on his shoulder as I lean over him, _two guys from Homeland Security just showed up on our doorstep. Standard MIB. So whatever you weren’t telling us last night, now's the time to spill the beans._

Logan lifts his head abruptly, suddenly wide awake. _Homeland Security?_

_Yeah, two Feds in dandy black suits. What have you gotten yourself into?_

He quickly slips out under my touch and is off the bed faster than I can look. I watch after him as he silently reaches for his duffle that still sits on the floor next to the dresser right where I put it yesterday and frantically pulls out a shirt.

_If Homeland Security is involved, this is way above my paygrade,_ he grunts and slips the shirt over his head. _Pack a bag. We need to leave._

_Leave?_ I ask completely puzzled, and rise from the bed as well. _Logan? What's happening?_

_I have no fucking clue, but I can't be bothered to sit around and wait. If they haul out the big guns, so do we. Bring in the cavalry._

_The cavalry, huh? Can we call in the Mongols for backup?_

Apparently, my sarcastic joke falls flat because I’m not getting any kind of immediate reaction from him. Instead, he pulls a pair of jeans out of the duffle and quickly slips them on without as much as even glancing at me.

_Do you know any Mongols? Cause I don’t think I have any on speed dial,_ he says as he zips up his pants, finally acknowledging me with a snarky response. _I may know a guy though. Don’t think he has an army of horse-riding Mongols on hand but those tend to be a bit overrated anyways. He may have an army of battle rats though. Or was it geese? Ants. He definitely has battle ants._

_And now he suddenly knows a guy!_ Exasperated, I throw my arms in the air and roll my eyes. _Last night we asked you if there was anyone you could think of who could help and now you’re suddenly pulling a random guy out of your magic hat. Who else do you have lined up in that little black book of yours that you’re not telling us about?_

_I'm not the guy who breaks a butterfly on a wheel. There aren’t a lot of people left I trust and if I’m looking at exhausting all my resources this early in the game, it damn well better be worth it._

_And you don’t think this is worth it? Then what is?_

_If I had known last night that I may need three dozen heavily beweaponed horse-mounted warriors by this morning, don’t you think I would have called them in already? Sorry that I'm not psychic,_ he huffs. _Fifteen minutes, then we need to be out of here. We need to disappear for a while. I'm calling us an Uber._

He bends down and pulls his cell from his bag, immediately unlocking it as he does and swiping across the screen to find the app he’s looking for. 

_Logan, I can't just up and leave._

_Yeah, and that's exactly why I had to travel all the way to Tennessee to find you._

_You’re an asshole._

He drops his cell into his duffle, then gets up, sighing and rubbing his hand over the back of his head as he finally turns his full attention at me.

_Look, that guy who I think can help? He's up in LA. I'll need a few days. Either you come with me or you don't. Your choice. But if Homeland Security is snooping around, whatever I got dragged into, it's bigger than we both can handle. I can't stay put._

_Why are you so spooked all of a sudden?_

_Two dudes in suits knocking at the front door? They made me disappear once already. I'm not gonna wait around for a repeat. You coming with me or not?_

I cross my arms in front of my chest and remain silent as he watches me, waiting for an answer which I can’t give him right now. Homeland Security showing up has seriously spooked him and has me equally terrified. But I can't ignore that there are things he hasn't told me that would have a federal agency come running to our door. How bad is it really what he's keeping from me? I can't help him if he doesn't talk, and the way it looks now, knowing a guy up in LA and all, he may not even need me at all. Apparently he trusts that guy more than me if he thinks he's the one who can help better than his own family. A guy he's never mentioned, not even when we asked if he could think of anyone who'd be able to help.

_Veronica,_ Logan sighs as he steps towards me, obviously sensing he's lost me somewhere along the line. He lifts a hand and starts rubbing it up and down my arm in an attempt to calm not only me down, but also himself. _I really have no clue why Homeland Security got involved. But that's a lot of red flags right there. Can you please just trust me on this?_

_You're not making it easy for me to trust you right now,_ I shrug his hand off my arm and move out of his touch. _Dad asked you if you had any connections and you lied to us point-blank._

_I don't know what else you want to hear from me. I've told you everything I can tell you._

_Everything you_ want _to tell, but not everything there is. I can't help you if you're holding back._

_Fine,_ he snaps, turns and is back at his duffle with two fast strides. He bends down to pick up his shoes and bag, muttering and giving me an extremely cold shoulder.

_Logan..._

He raises his hand and stops me mid-sentence. _I don't know what I was expecting but I was hoping you'd give me at least the benefit of the doubt. I thought I deserved that._

I groan deeply as I watch him walk out of the room. This isn't how this was supposed to go. We’re supposed to get through this together - fight the battles, win the war, claim our victory. Us. Together. Team Mars-Echolls for the win. Not Team Mars digging in the dirt here in Neptune while Team Echolls is hiding out God knows where chasing after who knows who or what. I kick my flip flops across the room in frustration, and they come clattering down against the closed closet door. 

_Fuck._

I really thought the rollercoaster had finally pulled back into the station but it looks like I'm in for a second ride on Wildfire: the Crazy World of Emotions. I really gotta find the emergency brake and come to a halt before it's too late. What’s up is down and what’s down is up, and nothing really makes any sense anymore. What I am pretty sure of though is that I can't just let Logan leave, no matter what's going between us right now. I can't lose him again.

I shuffle out of the bedroom and find him sitting on the couch, putting on his sneakers. He looks up, and his gaze meets mine shortly. He shakes his head, then turns his attention back to tying his shoes. For a moment, I ponder if I should just walk over, say something, use the emergency brake. My hand's on the lever, ready to pull but I can’t really bring myself to do it. He fucking lied to us last night, so what else is there he isn't telling us, or is lying about? In some weird and twisted way I can somehow understand why he wasn’t that upfront with us - you don’t play all your aces right at the start of the game, you play them when needed. Last night, the game had started off easy. He played the common cards to advance the game and kept the aces up his sleeve. When the tables turned this morning, and it was time to play the trump, he slapped it right onto the table. While I may be able to forgive, I can’t quite forget that easily. 

I steal a quick glance of Logan again who’s deliberately ignoring me now, then huff and walk into the kitchen. Dad's standing at the counter, tapping his fingers on the top while he's talking to Cliff. He holds up a finger, letting me know to give him a minute to finish the call. I nod at him and grab a strawberry from the bowl, quickly stuffing it into my mouth as I eye the bagels that still sit where I put them earlier. Slightly burnt as they are, they'd probably still make a halfway decent peace offering. I really need to pull that lever.

I pick up the container of cream cheese I placed on the counter before our little daddy-daughter breakfast gathering in the kitchen got interrupted and turn it over to look for the expiration date. It takes me a moment to actually find the printed date. Why does it always have to be placed right where you're least expecting it and in a goddamn size that even at my age with a 20-20 vision I have a hard time reading? I pinch my eyes, squinting at the extremely small and kinda faded print. And the cream cheese's life expectancy ran out three and a half weeks ago. Crap. Food poisoning sure isn't part of the Mars-Echolls peace treaty. 

_Thanks, Cliff. I'll tell Veronica to give you a call later._ Dad clicks off the phone, places it down on the counter and then looks up at me. _He's expecting your call._

_What did you tell him?_

_I said my one and only daughter may have had a not so pleasant run in with Homeland Security this morning and could need some legal counseling. You can break the news about Logan when you call him._

_Why do I bother keeping you around when you can't even do the easiest of legwork properly and I have to do everything myself in the end anyway?_ I mutter with a mischievous grin, then pop another strawberry into my mouth.

_It's always a pleasure working with you, kiddo._

_Says the guy right before he's fired from the job._

I pick up the cup of coffee I brewed for Logan earlier - it still should be a decent temperature to drink - and one of the bagels. With that, I head into the living room where I find him still sitting on the couch, intently watching the screen of his cell phone. I can see he's checking the current location of his Uber driver in the app as I hold out the coffee and the bagel for him. He looks up, and I see a flicker of surprise on his face. His lips curl in a faint smile as he places his phone on the coffee table in front of the couch. 

_That's a pretty lousy peace offering._

I shrug my shoulders. _We ran out of rainbow sprinkled unicorn cookies so I figured I'll go for a lukewarm cup of coffee and a slightly burnt bagel instead. Makes a great substitute if you ask me._

He snorts and takes both the coffee and the bagel from my hands. He takes a sip from the mug and grimaces slightly. _This isn't just a lousy peace offering, it's actually a kinda shitty one. Cold coffee and a burnt bagel without cream cheese._

_To each what they deserve_ , I smirk before I drop the mischief and turn serious again.

_Logan, you know me. Some things just aren't as easy with me as they are with other people._

He takes a deep breath and places both the bagel and the coffee on the small table in front of the sofa. 

_No one writes love songs about the relationships that do come easy._

_And that's exactly why Endless Love is the most requested song at wedding receptions. Or so I heard._

_Really? I always thought it was Highway to Hell._ He pauses for a moment, fidgeting with his fingers and avoids looking at me. Over the years, we’ve gotten really good at playing this game of deflection. It’s kinda what makes us tick. Throw in some snark, deflect, then get back on point or don’t get back on point. When we eventually do end up back on track, we’ve usually had enough time for a breather and the thoughtless and inconsiderate accusations normally aren’t a part of the game anymore. 

_Nothing has ever been normal or easy with us,_ he goes on, his gaze still fixed on his hands. _If it were, it wouldn't be us._

_No._

_I want my life back, Veronica._ He finally looks back up at me, and I can see a hint of desperation in his eyes. _I need it back. For me. For us. Because I need us. Whatever it takes, I need to at least try. Can you understand that?_

Of course I can. It’s all I want as well. Us. But whatever it takes, no matter the cost... I can’t do that anymore. The last time the cost was just too high - I lost him. I can’t allow myself to go all in again, but I can still play my cards, drop part of my cash into the pool, and try my best to keep the upper hand. 

_I could drive us,_ I offer him my buy-in. I'm not exactly on the level of fully trusting him yet but I know I can't just let him walk out that door without knowing where he's going and when or if he'll return. I've just gotten him back and I sure as hell ain't gonna let him slip away again. I’m gonna put some money down on the house, hoping he’s gonna ask me to show him my cards and not to banish my hand. 

_Fifty bucks they put a tracker on your car,_ Logan retorts, his eyebrows twitching in what I perceive to be slight amusement. Point duly taken. He picks up his phone and checks on the app. _My ride should be here in a few minutes._

He holds up the screen for me and I can see from the route he's put in that a guy named José will be driving him to an address in the fancy 09er zip code of the city of Neptune. 

_I know where Dick keeps the keys to his BMW. 100% free of any possible tracking devices._

_So Dick just lets you borrow his car._

_Only the BMW. He called dibs on the Porsche because that one's a better chick magnet. Or so he claims._

_It's things like that that make me wonder - are you cheating on me with that guy?_ I taunt him.

_He flies you to Tennessee, let's you drive his car..._

Logan just rolls his eyes at me. _You snooze, you lose. Three minutes, hon._

_You think you can stall José for a few minutes? The bed hair, barefoot, underwear and tank top look is exclusively for my husband._

_My, ain't I glad that I'm that lucky bastard of a husband._

I grin at him before I reach down, pick up the bagel, and take a quick bite out of it. He tsk's me immediately.

_That's mine._

_And that was my share for actually making that for you._

He laughs and rises from the couch. Swatting my butt, he tells me _two minutes, hurry._ Which is my cue that I need to speed up if I want to catch that ride with him.

I manage to freshen up, put my hair into a halfway decent ponytail, get dressed and walk out into the living room, cell phone in hand, messenger bag over my shoulder, a mere seven minutes later. That’s gotta be something of a new record.

_So you're heading to LA,_ I hear dad say as he walks out of the kitchen and meets me near the front door. _Logan told me._

_Then he's told you just as much as he's told me._

_Be careful, sweetheart, okay?_ He places an arm around my shoulder, pulls me in close and places a kiss against the top of my head. _These are the big guys we're up against._

_They don't call me Miss Careful for nothing._

I pat his chest lightly before I wriggle out of his embrace and reach for the door knob. 

_Drama magnet and adrenaline junkie is more like it._

_I'll call you tonight._

I walk out to the front porch and see Logan waiting with a 60-something stranger who I assume must be José next to a shiny new metallic-green Ford Taurus that’s parked backwards in the driveway behind my car, engine running. 

_When I said we're going to LA, it didn't necessarily involve a shopping trip to Rodeo Drive,_ he smirks about my lack of an overnight bag.

_Never underestimate a private detective,_ I retort as I pop the trunk of my car with the remote. _We're always prepped for whatever the task._

I fish out the extra overnight bag I always keep in there. A fresh change of clothes, underwear, and all the toiletries a woman needs. You never know when you'll need it. With a rather loud bang I close the trunk and hand the bag over to Logan, who retreats toward the Taurus. 

_José, Veronica. Veronica, José,_ he utters, waving his hand between us. 

_Buenos dias,_ he smiles as he pops the trunk for Logan to store my bag. _Marvelous morning._

Bags safely stored in the trunk, I slip into the backseat of the Taurus next to Logan. The ride is predominately quiet even though Logan occasionally tries to encourage small-talk with José, but the dude’s tight as a clam. The only real sentence we actually do get out of him is his request to leave a positive review for him as he gets our bags out of the trunk at Dick's place. We thank him for the ride, and not a minute later watch after him as he drives off. I pick up my bag and walk down the short path to where the BMW convertible is parked outside, top down. 

_So where does Dick keep his keys?_ I ask while I swing my bag over my shoulder.

_Check the glove box,_ Logan replies with an amused grin.

_Are you kidding me?_

I lean into the car and open the glove box. Lo and behold, there are the keys, right next to the registration papers. I pick them up and hold them out just as Logan pushes the button on the trunk and the lid slowly flips open.

_Comfort access, no need for the keys as long as they're in range._

He dumps his bag into the boot and holds out his hand to take my bag from me.

_And that just makes it even worse._

_C'mon, you don't really think Dick always keeps his keys in the car like that,_ he chuckles, drops my bag into the trunk and then pushes the button that automatically closes the lid. _I texted him earlier to leave me the keys. He's not that dumb._

_Please, we’re talking about Dick here. The guy whose 911 emergency texts either read “bring me pants” or “ran out of booze, where’s the beer hog?”. Where is that goon anyway?_

Logan's pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the beach behind us, _Probably out there somewhere hitting the waves._

I open the door to the passenger seat and slip into the cool leather seat. I've totally forgotten how comfy deluxe vehicles like this one actually are... When we traded Logan's BMW for my Hyundai and a bicycle, we also traded the luxury of commodious high-end German manufacturing for mundane Korean commodity. Not that I mind - any car with four wheels will probably get me to where I need to go - but sitting back in a BMW convertible inadvertently brings back memories of a time that seems like eons ago.

I glance over at him as he pulls the car into reverse and backs out of the driveway. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I can finally see again what I haven't seen glistening in his gaze since we said I do. I'm seeing home. 

He flashes me a sweet but short smile before he turns his attention back to the road and we're on our way. A short drive-through stop at Starbucks later, grabbing the proper coffee we both didn't get to have this morning, he suggests we close the top for a smoother ride up to LA before we pull out of the parking lot. I can feel a bit of uneasiness in his voice while he talks - I'm not quite sure if it's because he remembers I love having the top down to feel the fresh breeze against my skin, or if he's afraid cramming us into the tight space of a closed convertible in a current state of what I'd call “very awkward uneasiness” will inadvertently drive us over the edge. Sitting in a car together in close proximity gives neither of us a lot of wriggle room to just get up and leave. We know better than to pick fights in a situation like this though, so we either have to choose our conversations carefully or say nothing at all. I guess right now, the say-nothing-at-all approach seems to be the acceptable way to go. All bets are off on how long I can actually keep my mouth shut, though. 

I'm silently sipping a salted caramel cappuccino when we reach the on-ramp to I-5 north. The faster we get to wherever we're headed, the closer we’re to getting our lives back in order. Or at least I hope so. Logan still hasn't told me where exactly we're going or who we're going to see, but the truth is, right now anywhere or anyone is probably better than Neptune and the MIB waiting for him there. He's afraid they'll make him disappear again and frankly, whether I want to admit it or not, so am I. I know what a life without Logan looks like. I don't want to ever go back to living like that if I can help it. But try as I might to rescue him and the world, I'm not almighty and as much as I don't like to ask for help, I have to acknowledge that this time, we don't have any other choice.

We’re riding in silence, and I can feel him glancing over at me occasionally, which is either followed by a sigh or him nervously tapping his thumb against the steering wheel. I can sense he wants to talk, but the last serious conversation we had kinda blew up in our faces. 

_So how exactly did you meet this guy?_ I finally ask as we pass a sign that tells us we’re five miles south of the junction to I-405. Thirty-six minutes. Must be a new record for me. 

Logan looks over at me, obviously quite amused that I’m the one who finally broke the silence. He bobs his head in my direction, then turns his attention back to the highway. 

_We crossed paths on a few missions,_ he says, giving me that saucy undertone as he adds, _top secret._

_So he's like what. James Bond?_

_No, though he’d probably love to hear you call him that,_ he chuckles. 

_If I can't call him Bond, what else can I call him?_

_I'm not falling for that._

_Falling for what?_

_Your not-so-subtle interrogation skills. Has that ever worked for you?_

I shrug my shoulders with a grin, _A girl can try._

_He's really top top secret. It doesn't get anymore top secret in the Navy than that._

_I thought Naval Intelligence was the official top secret of the Navy. Are you telling me I've not been shacking up with a hot and sexy Navy spy all these years?_

_Hot and sexy naval officer for sure. Spy?_ His eyes fall on me, and I turn to find him giving me a rather audacious look. _Can't comment on that._

I lean over the middle console and narrow my eyes at him, donning an intense stare. He raises his eyebrows in response, catching on immediately what I'm trying to do, and splutters with laughter.

_That Jedi mind trick won't work on me, Obi Mars Kenobi. No need to even try._

_Bugger,_ I flick my eyes heavenwards _. Maybe the Vulcan mind-meld will yield better results._

Lifting my hand, I press the tips of three of my fingers against the side of his face, trying to mimic what I remember of Spock's mind reading technique. Maybe that'll be a better approach than my obviously non-existent Jedi powers.

_Just how much sci-fi have you actually watched lately?_ Logan ponders with a grin, as he reaches up, removes my hand from his face and places it back down on the console.

_Probably not enough cause this ain't working either._

_Maybe it would work if you were actually Vulcan?_

_Oh, now that would explain that, of course._

I flop back into my seat with a playful huff and cross my arms in front of me.

_So I'm not banging Jack Ryan and the guy we're about to see isn't James Bond. I'm pretty disappointed to say the least._

_I’m sorry I’m all the banging material you’ve got, pussycat._

_Beggars can't be choosers,_ I quip and shrug my shoulders rather defiantly. _So this not-James Bond we're going to see is a top secret Naval officer._

_I didn't say that._

_Yes, you did. Top top secret. It doesn't get anymore top secret in the Navy than that. Those were your words._

_Indeed they were._

_So?_ I taunt him, trying to get at least some viable info out of him. He's gotta give me something, anything. 

_So you'll find out soon enough when we reach our destination. And before you even think about trying that Vulcan mind-meld again, I'm not going to tell you where we're going until we actually get there._

_Are we there yet?_ I pause for a moment, knowing very well I'm walking a fine line between actually being sassy and being as annoying as can be. One wrong step, and we'll cross over into that world of deprecating mockery and hurtful cynicism. Quickly assessing the situation, and noticing the rather content look on Logan's face, I think I can tease him just a tad bit more so I repeat myself like a petulant little girl. _Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?_

I can practically hear Logan roll his eyes at me as he taps the entertainment system on the dashboard to turn it on. Electronic dance music blasts through the speakers immediately, giving the car the ultimate Dick touch. 

_Silence is golden,_ I sing-sang and turn the music back off. _That music's a serious offence to my sensible ears._

_There's no accounting for taste. Fair warning though, the music will go full blast again if you're giving me an encore._

_I give in. The chances of you giving me any info about where we're going is like turkeys voting for Christmas._

He raises a hand in the air and rolls his eyes heavenwards. _Finally she comes to her senses._

_So tell me about not-James Bond again. Top top secret non-Naval spy. CIA? NSA? Your life really must've been very Mission Impossible-esque if you even met such a guy._

_Jesus Christ, Veronica,_ he snorts. _Can't you just drop it already?_

_You can't just throw me a bone and keep me on tenterhooks. This ain't how this girl works._

_Oh, I know if that girl's got a bee in her bonnet, there's no stopping her._

_So you just like taunting me like that on purpose?_

_Maybe a little._

_Crapalicious._

I add an exasperatedly dramatic huff in defiance before I shut my mouth. The not-knowing is killing me though, so I only manage to keep quiet for about the next three exits until we're just past Long Beach. The cogwheels are grinding away rapidly, and if he's not gonna give me more intel any time soon, my head's gonna explode.

_What's the bribe gonna be?_

I’ve obviously caught him totally off-guard, as he just gives me a monosyllabic response. _What?_

_What's not-James Bond's going rate?_ I clarify. _I highly doubt it's your usual gift card spending money. A top top secret no-spy doesn't strike me as being a milkshake kinda guy. A bottle of Martini maybe?_

_You're really hell-bent on making me want to ditch you at the next exit._

_Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn._

_Oh, you do talk scandalous,_ he whistles amused, _I'll make you a deal, Miss Scarlett. You hold your horses for the next thirty minutes. We get there, I'll introduce you, and if they hand out invitations to the secret world of power and deceit, I'll answer every question you have. So I suggest you leave feisty Miss Scarlett at home and bring out your lovable Melanie impression instead._

_They?_ I retort, and immediately notice that Logan didn’t expect me to pick up on that. He was probably expecting a snarky counter to his _Gone With the Wind_ comment. He's really gotta up his game if he seriously wants to mess with this girl. _So we just upgraded from a single guy to the A-Team. Maybe he's not really that good if he needs a whole team behind the A._

_You really gotta cut back on all that movie watching._

_But honey,_ I drawl, _watching TV is the highlight of my day!_

_Watching sappy tear-jerkers on Lifetime and Hallmark like any good housewife?_

_Netflixing awesome sci-fi and action is more my style. Star Wars, Star Trek, some Marvel here and there… Deadpool might even count as your sappy tear-jerker._

_I can definitely see the appeal of Deadpool but did you just declare Star Trek awesome sci-fi?_ He puts a hand against his chest, emphasising mock outrage. _I’m extremely hurt._

_I'd declare some of it awesome sci-fi, yes._

_Like?_

_Khan versus Kirk was some real eye candy, I’d say._

_I'm praying to God you're not talking about William Shatner,_ he snorts.

_I said eye candy not eyesore_ . _Benedict Cumberbatch made for a pretty hot Sherlock, coat twirling included. But Khan most definitely killed it._

_And here I thought we watched all that Sherlock just so you could prove you’re smarter than him._ He looks over at me with a rather naughty grin. _I never knew you were so shallow, Mrs. Echolls._

_Mmmh,_ I nod my head at him, _he's always kept me very good company when you were away._

_It's the accent, isn't it?_

_All six feet of British hotness. Rawr._

Logan just shakes his head at me in amusement, _That doesn’t even warrant a response._

_Do I sense some jealousy?_

He just keeps on chuckling without actually giving me an answer as he flips the turn signal and pulls into the right lane. We're just past LAX, and the sign tells me we’re exiting the interstate heading west towards Venice and Marina del Rey. 

_Let's call a spade a spade. These guys are legit, right?_

_100% legit. They're OSP_ , he finally replies after a moment, his gaze never leaving the congested traffic in front of us. 

_OSP? What's that supposed to mean? Oregon State Police? Old School Presbyterians? Members of the Order of St. Paul the First Hermit?_

He just shrugs his shoulder without giving me a response. Okay, if he doesn't wanna tell me, my friend Google probably will. I reach for my messenger bag which conveniently sits on the floor between my legs, fumble for my phone and finally find it stuck between my wallet and my hairbrush. Even before I can pull it out, I can hear Logan smirking, _Asking your bestie Google now?_

_I'm pretty sure he'll be much more forthcoming than you are._

_Let's hit him up for some info then._

I put in a search for OSP Navy and the phone immediately gives me a range of navy colored OSP home furnishings to OSP fishing gear. What does catch my attention though is the mention of a Naval Supply Systems Command in someone's personal bio about 3 scrolls down the page and that's about the only connection to the Navy I can find. So is the Naval Supply Corps the secret top secret of the Navy now or was that just a not so subtle hint from Logan that we should be looking at home furnishings for a new place of our own?

_I take your silence as a sign that your bestie has abandoned you on your quest for knowledge._

_Not unless that guy you know is a spiffy looking loveseat and his team the whole set of matching living room furniture._

He taps his thumb against the steering wheel with a snort, _The almighty Google never disappoints._

We merge with the 90 back onto the 1, then Logan takes the next left and a couple blocks later pulls into a curbside parking space opposite an old Spanish Mission building that has seen better days. He kills the engine and quickly looks back over his shoulder towards the entrance of the building before he sinks into his seat with a deep sigh.

_So this is where James Bond and the A-Team hide out?_

_Kinda,_ he replies and adjusts the rearview mirror so he has a clear view of the building. He studies the reflection for a few seconds, then picks his phone from the console to check it's still on.

_Kinda?_

He dumps his phone back into its previous resting place and checks the rearview mirror once again.

_We watch and wait._

_Really? We're surveilling that building? You do understand that any surveillance services I offer are billable by the hour and payable in kind._

_And I fully intend to settle that bill._

I bite down on my lip and turn over my shoulder. Logan's having that mischievous and awesomely sexy look on his face as he whistles innocently. Our eyes meet, and he winks at me before he tips his head in direction of the building we’re supposed to be watching.

_Eyes on that. We’re on a stakeout._

_What did they teach you in Naval Intelligence School? If this is your idea of a proper stakeout, we really gotta talk shop. The 101 of surveilling a building. Lesson one,_ I hold up a finger to start off my counting, _blend in. A white high-end convertible is certainly not blending in. Which is exactly why we traded yours for a Hyundai. Lesson two,_ I wiggle two fingers in front of his face, _bring enough food and drinks and take a bathroom break beforehand. A single coffee on the way isn't gonna cut it, especially if that coffee makes me need to pee really bad. And lesson three…_

I don’t even get as far as holding up a third finger, when there's a rap against the half-opened passenger side window, and a voice suddenly cuts in. 

_... Be stealthy and shut up?_

Both our heads shoot to the right to figure out where the voice had come from. It belongs to a guy in his late 30s who's grinning at us broadly. He’s casually dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved baseball tee, and blonde locks that most definitely could benefit from a haircut. I hope that's not the cavalry Logan has been talking about, but seeing the recognition on his face and the smirk that suddenly crosses the stranger's face, this indeed must be him.

_Logan Echolls,_ the stranger whistles as I lower the window, _it's been quite some time. Last I heard you were pushing up daisies._

_There's still life in the old dog yet._

_What brings you up to LA?_

Blonde guy casually leans against the side of the car, arm on top, and I can’t help but sense a bit of a Dick Casablancas vibe crossing the air. Why is it that Logan always seems to associate with such guys? Is that some kind of hidden bro code I don’t get? Hang out with the blonde surfer dudes to be part of the cool gang? 

_I need help._

_From me?_

_Yeah. Can we talk inside?_

He eyes me, raises his eyebrows and indicates me with a nod, _Who's the pretty blonde?_

And we’ve most definitely crossed into douchebag territory now. 

_Veronica,_ Logan replies. _My wife._

_Mmmh, traded up from a girlfriend to a wife. Swell._

_C'mon, Deeks, let's drop the smalltalk. I'm really in a pinch here._

Douchebag straightens, and the smirk on his face disappears. Wow, he can look at least a tad serious after all. 

_This better be worth my time, Echolls. If it's not, you owe me big time._

Logan looks at the guy he called Deeks, then flips his eyes in my direction for a moment before turning his attention back to blondie. 

_Trust me. It will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you noticed the crossover into another fandom... don't get your hopes up, it's not gonna be a big one. I'm just borrowing a few characters for a couple chapters. If you didn't notice the crossover, no biggy, you don't need to be familiar with the other fandom at all. I just found it easier to flesh out the characters I'd made up in my head by using pre-existing characters from another show that already have a backstory and a history that I could draw from.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning. This chapter is gonna get quite dark at some point because I deals with part of what Logan has been through during the year that wasn't and his state of mind. If you're not comfortable with reading that, you might want to skip this one. 
> 
> Thanks to my betas BrokenMNemonic and Aurora2020 :-)

There’s a strange vibe going as we walk into the building. I’ve walked into a lot of places like this. Working spaces. Bullpens. Desks sitting on either side. Officers, agents or whatever else they want to call themselves going on with their business while occasionally looking up at the strangers invading their space and territory. The scrutinizing glances that want to analyze you, trying to figure out what exactly it is you’ve done, or what you know to deserve the special treatment of being hauled in for personal questioning. It’s as if their stares are piercing right through you, already judging you just for the fact that whatever it is that requires your presence in this fine establishment, it can’t be good. 

Half of the desks are empty, but nonetheless, I can feel a thousand eyes glaring at us. I don’t know if it’s because Deeks is hollering through the room loudly or if these people are baffled, curious even, to see a dead man walking. I know it's pretty irrational to think that though - nobody’s that likely to know the story of Logan Echolls and his untimely demise, and even if for some reason or another they do know about the last bombing victim of the Neptune Spring Break Bomber, they surely wouldn't be able to dot the I’s and cross the T’s. Nevertheless, my hand moves to the left, seeking human touch, and I can feel fingers silently locking with mine. 

Deeks motions for us to wait by a desk, his desk, apparently, before he disappears around an oddly-painted room divider and is out of sight. I glance over my shoulder, scanning the room once again, until I feel the fingers curled around my hand squeezing it gently. As simple as this gesture is, it's just what I needed. Just the kind of encouragement and unspoken support I crave.

Deeks is back a few minutes later, with company in tow. 

"Echolls, it's been a while," the tall brunette greets us. "And you must be Veronica. Hi. I'm Kensi."

We’re shaking hands, like any civil person would do. I can still feel curious, inquiring eyes on my back though. Somehow I hope that the friendly, welcoming smile on Kensi’s face tells them we’re the good guys, and they’ll all just back off. I don't really want to become the posterboy of today's front-page splash again; I've had enough of that in my formative years to never want to be the headline of any tabloid ever again. 

"Still joined at the hip, I see? Where one goes, the other isn't far off," I remark, just the bit of snark in my voice that I know Kensi will appreciate.

"That's married life," Kensi replies, and shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly _._ "You wake up from the bliss one day and suddenly have this puppy glued to your legs, following you around everywhere."

"I heard. Congrats. Sorry I didn't send a wedding gift."

"Seeing you were dead and all, you're forgiven," Deeks mutters, waving his hand at us in a dismissing manner. "How about we head to the boathouse to talk? Much more comfy, and much more privacy. Kensi can show Veronica around and have a little girl-on-girl chit-chat about married life. What do you say?"

"No offense, but I'd rather go where he's going," Veronica cuts in, and I can't help but smile about her insistent tone. Wouldn't have expected anything else from her. No matter what's happened between us this morning, where I go, she goes. 

Deeks acknowledges the response with a chuckle and the snark you'd expect from a guy like him, "Echolls, looks like your wife is running an even tighter ship than mine."

"Give me some time to sort out a few things with Deeks first, okay?" I tell Veronica as I stroke a hand over her upper arm, "Pick Kensi's brain for anything you ever wanted to know about my work with the Navy in the meantime."

There is a moment of silence between us before the reply just splutters out of Veronica, "You sure? You might not like what she tells me. All that juicy stuff you usually keep from me. Those secrets you want to keep buried… there's no going back from that. She might just tell me you really are Ethan Hunt."

I can't tell if she's just trying to use her sassiness to ease both of us into feeling a bit more comfortable in our current surroundings or what else she wanted to accomplish with that reply. I've always been able to read Veronica like an open book, but right now…I don't really know what it is, but she's… different somehow. More closed off than she used to be. A better poker player maybe? I absolutely don't know. In most ways, we're still tuned the same way but a part of her is just… _off_. Judging by the way she looks at me, I think this feeling probably goes both ways.

"I definitely can tell you a lot of interesting things about Lieutenant Commander Echolls here," Kensi breaks the silence between us. "Has he ever told you about the _moon always rises_ incident on the _Truman_? If not, it's one hell of a story you do not want to miss."

Veronica's gaze wanders over to Kensi, studying her for a moment, obviously trying to determine if she's as trustworthy as I make her out to be, before she turns back to me. 

"This better not be a Dick version of _the moon always rises_. That wasn't even funny in high school."

I just roll my eyes at her, not being able to suppress the smile that creeps across my face. Yeah, so what? If you're stuck with airedales and brownshoes and they dare you to the enlisted mess, it's a challenge you gotta accept. And usually, nothing good comes of it… especially if the moon rises during lunch already.

"The boathouse is just a short drive from here," I deliberately ignore her comment, because really, Kensi dishing out that story will most probably be embarrassing enough in a Dick-sorta-way. "I'll be fine, don't worry. You can trust them."

I can feel her hesitation, see the cogwheels turning. She doesn't know these people, isn't sure if they'll return me alive and in one piece. I don't blame her. If our roles were reversed, I’m not sure if I'd be able to just let her go with strangers either. But right now, we don't have any other choice. Deeks and Kensi have saved my ass before. I trust them with my life.

Veronica just nods at me silently, her face knitted in a deep frown. I force a smile on my face, trying to reassure her I'll be back in no time. 

"Come back to me," she whispers barely audible for those around us.

I haven't heard those words in quite some time. Those four little words she's always whispered to me before a deployment back in the days, before me being gone for weeks had become part of our daily lives just like programming the coffee maker at night for 6am coffee the next morning… when she realized that there was nothing to worry about, that I indeed would come back to her.

"Always," I whisper back.

Bending down slightly, I brush my lips over her forehead in a gentle kiss, then straighten. Deeks nods at me, and the two of us walk out of headquarters.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve been in the boathouse. It wasn’t often that they allowed me to come back here. I’ve always been the guy for the rough, not the one for the talk. So on the rare occasion they actually let me sit in and observe Deeks and Kensi sweet-talk the perps into dishing out the information they wanted, I just sat back and listened. 

It’s funny though, me sitting on the other side of the table today. Kinda brings back memories of a different life when being on the wrong side of the table was a more regular occurrence than not. A life I thought I'd left behind after the Navy reeled me in and spit me out sober. No one can escape their past though -- especially me. 

"Your file actually reads pretty interestingly," Deeks says as he turns off the tablet and puts it down in front of him. "According to that, you should be six feet under and not sitting across the table from me."

"And now you understand why I’m in a pinch right now."

"Yeah, I can see where that could be pretty inconvenient at times, especially with the lady." He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms behind his head, looking at me questioningly, with just a smidge of cockiness and amusement mixed in. "So humor me. How did Logan Echolls turn into a character from the Walking Dead?"

"Yeah, Veronica made that joke already."

"Bugger. But you gotta admit, it's a good one."

"So my file right there," I impatiently tap my finger on the table where the tablet is strategically placed between us, creating an invisible barrier that I know better than to cross, "it says that I died in a car bomb in Neptune last year, right?"

"Right."

"Obviously, that can’t be true ‘cause I’m sitting right across from you."

"Obviously."

"So what if I told you that I spent most of last year in Syria and Iraq on a covert mission in an ISIS bootcamp?"

"You, spying on ISIS?" Deeks splutters, and I can sense there’s a snarky response just waiting for me. "Yeah, that’s like nailing jelly to the wall." 

During all of my run-ins with Deeks in the past, it was his annoying smugness that always got to me the most. While sparring with Veronica was challenging and endearing, and sometimes even downright dirty, any such encounters I had with Deeks were frustrating to say the least. Infuriating might even be a better word. Offer him your little finger and he'll just give you that shit-eating grin before he runs off with the whole fucking arm. 

Big Bird once called me out on it, telling me he wasn’t gonna play judge any longer on who could prove to be the loudest and biggest dick on the can. He said I needed to keep the alpha in check as an insubordination charge on my record was most definitely worse than having to swallow my pride for a few days. Was I intimidated by Deeks' cockiness? Absolutely and most definitely no. Well, maybe a little. Do I see the irony in all this? Hell yeah.

"Look" _,_ I start in an attempt to get down to the nitty-gritty, "someone nabbed me on my wedding day, told Veronica I was dead, told me Veronica was dead, and shipped me off to the desert. I need to figure out the what, the who, the where, the whole hula palooza, and you guys are the only ones I know who can help me with that."

"They pulled you out on your wedding day? Dude, that’s a very shitty thing. You didn’t even get to go on a honeymoon?"

Yup, still infuriating. That's probably never gonna change, because why would it? Deeks is Deeks and will always be Deeks. Just like I am me and will always be me. But it's not like I have any other choice than to keep my ego in check and silently grumble about the shit he's giving me ‘cause whether I like it or not, I need his help. And this smug bastard fucking knows it.

"Is that all you got from what I told you? That I missed out on my honeymoon?"

I can't really help it. I'm slowly losing my patience even while I know I better shouldn’t. It's what he wants - tempt me to no end to annoy the hell out of me. Just because he can. How do I know that? It's exactly my MO. It's how I roll. The only difference being that I'm usually on the giving end and not the receiving. Being on the other side of the table? It sucks balls.

"The honeymoon’s the best part of it all!" he mutters _,_ and I give him the Logan Echolls look of annoyance in return. It's time to cut the crap. "Okay, sorry, got it. So if what you’re saying is true, if the Navy really did all that…"

"No ifs, Deeks!" I slap my palm on the table, and the recognition in his face tells me that I’ve finally broken through the smugness and found a way to directly address Detective Marty Deeks. "Look at me! I'm sitting right across from you when, according to my file, I should be six feet under. You have a bunch of awesomely expensive computers and access to pretty much every single military database. There’s gotta be a record of me and what I’ve been up to the last year somewhere. About those Hellfires that were used to steamroll that ISIS bootcamp. About locking me up at Al-Tanf to silence me afterwards. And if you don't believe me or whatever you can find in those computers of yours, contact Frank Wallace. He's the one who helped me get out of Al-Tanf. Someone’s playing a rigged game, and you gotta help me figure out who that is."

He's finally catching on, and I'm not sure if that's due to the intensity in my voice, my intimidating posture as I sit bent halfway across the table, or the way my eyes are boring into him. Whatever it is, I've pulled out the Detective I need, and I intend to keep him primed and interested for as long as I can manage.

"That’s a lot of serious accusations, man."

"Trust me, I know it sounds batshit crazy. But honestly, do I look like a guy who'd fake his own death and then have the audacity to barge in here asking for help?"

"You're sure cocky enough to consider it, I'd say. Why, I'd suspect you'd be the first one to sign up for the zombie unit though."

And we're back to square one. I'm teetering on the verge of snapping, and if I had any other choice, I'd get up and leave. Probably also kick over a chair and slam the door behind me to leave a lasting impression just because I can. But right now I gotta suck it up and sit through an infuriating conversation -- if you can even call it that -- with a sparring partner who's in it for the kill. If I want to have even the slightest chance at getting my life back, he's it. So fucking suck it up, Echolls.

I take a deep breath and silently count to five. Do not allow the anger to get the upper hand. Keep the emotions in check. Breathe in. Hold. Count to five. Breathe out. Check. Cooled down.

"That movie sucked."

There. I can make a rebuttal without being too smug. Probably shouldn't have encouraged this little whatever you'd call it to drag on, but hey, I'm born this way. Can't help it. 

"Ouch. You hurt my feelings." If anyone has ever told me I can be a drama queen, they've never met Deeks. Hand pressed tightly against his chest, an Oscar-worthy expression of shock, bewilderment and hurt on his face, he rattles on, "It doesn't get any better than Nick Nolte in _Extreme Prejudice_. A clandestine zombie unit, composed of soldiers presumably killed-in-action, single-handedly brought down by one lone Texas Ranger."

"Let me guess. You're the Texas Ranger."

"Exactly. You could be…" He suddenly bolts upright in his chair, smacking his palms on the table. "Oh wait, wait, wait, now I got it! Richard Castle, end of season 6. Yeah, that's you! Definitely you! Much better fit than the zombie unit."

I shoot him a look that most probably could have killed. Richard Castle? What the fuck? 

"I don't even remotely know what the hell you're talking about, but still - cut the fucking crap, Deeks!"

"Fine," he relents as he leans back again. "You tell me your story and I’ll listen. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to help though cause that’s not my call to make. But if your story pans out, I’ll take it to Hetty. Sound like a deal?"

"If you throw in lunch somewhere down the line, we have a deal." 

"Cocky."

"Pizza?"

"Double pepperoni."

“Peppers."

"Mushrooms."

"No olives."

Deeks throws up his arms in frustration, "Man, you’re no fun, dude. Where's your adventurous side?"

"Anchovies?"

"Blegh."

Pizza, double pepperoni, peppers and mushrooms is ordered and delivered during the hour I use to bring him up to speed about Neptune, Epner, and the bomb he placed in Veronica's car.

"So, there’s really nothing you remember between your wife asking you something about Fiji, which by the way, is a pretty nice place and I would most definitely recommend it for a honeymoon, and you waking up at Bethesda?"

I shake my head at him while I wipe my fingers on a napkin. Looking up at Veronica shouting down at me from our bedroom window isn't the last thing I remember, per se. It's the car from city maintenance pulling up next to me, a guy whose face I can't picture anymore lowering the passenger side window and telling me I had a flat in the back and that he had to fine me because I wouldn't be able to move the car in time. After that, everything fades to black. But of course, the wife asking about Fiji offers a lot more potential for cocky comments than a public servant telling me I’m in for a hefty fine and a towed car, so of course once again, that's what Deeks has to pick up on. He’s asking in a halfway decent manner though, less smug and snarky and more of a genuine recommendation, so I’m able to just let it slide.

"I was in and out for a few days after I regained consciousness and I remember nurses, doctors… nothing out of the ordinary. They started talking me down whenever I asked about Veronica, where she was, why they wouldn’t let her see me. They pretty much kept me in isolation in the ICU, claiming that they couldn't risk infection during the healing process of the severe burns I suffered. I kept insisting they at least should get Veronica on the phone or let me see her through the windows. They wouldn't budge. At some point they most likely knocked me out with something ‘cause I’m definitely missing a few days in between as well. I think my CO showed on week two after Epner blew up our car? Or week three. I couldn’t quite keep track of time."

I'm a bit hazy on a lot of stuff that happened at Bethesda during the first few weeks. I was out for over a week, hooked up to a respirator to help me breathe and clinging on to a soothing voice that kept telling me that I needed to be strong, needed to hang on, that I was going to be okay. I believed the voice to be Veronica's, pleading with me to fight and find a way back to her so we could be all right. I followed the voice through darkness and through light until I reached a crossing, a path divided, asking me to choose. Left or right. Right or left. The voice kept taunting me like the Cheshire Cat, beckoning me to make a decision and press on, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right. And I just kept walking on.

Every time I reached the end of the road and peeled open an eye, I was greeted by a blinding light, blaring noises and excruciating pain. My eyes focused on nothing; no-one was at my side in an empty room. Her fingers weren't locked with mine, comforting me, helping me cope. Trying to form her name on my lips, whispering it in a desperate attempt to call out for her, I usually never managed more than a croak - a croak that wasn't answered because no-one was there to care. She wasn't there, and the voice in my head that kept calling out for me to fight was no longer hers.

I usually slipped back into darkness not very long after, a place so silent and so tranquil. The pain immediately subsided as I was cradled soothingly by an invisible force that kept me safe and protected until I found myself at that same crossing again where I’d stood so many times before. The whispers came and went, urging me to hold on, to fight, and so I did. She was out there waiting for me. My lifeline, my tether. So I sauntered along.

When the darkness finally spat me out for good and returned me to the living, I was looking up into a pair of blue eyes... sparkling blue like the ocean. Kind. Soothing. Comforting. I remember the relief I felt. She was there, waiting for me. Holding out for me. It took me a moment to focus and to realize that those eyes - they didn't belong to Veronica. They belonged to a woman I'd never seen before. Panic rose in me, my heartbeat quickened, and my breath caught in my throat. She wasn't there. I finally managed to say her name, call out for her. But like all those times I screamed for her before, she never came.

The excuses they gave me were utter bullshit. _You need to heal. We can't risk infection. Get better first._ I pleaded with them to allow her in, let her talk to me, begging for just a second with the woman who kept me going, kept me alive. The longer they kept her away, the more the realization crept in that something was just off. Veronica wasn't the kind of girl who'd just back down so easily. She'd raise heaven and hell to come see me, I was sure of that. Yet, there I lay, days ticking by, and no Veronica showed. No-one showed. No-one called. Not even Dick. 

Things started to get really funky the moment staff stopped talking to me beyond what was necessary for my recovery. I overheard the night nurses talking about the Bethesda Art Festival one day. I thought it was odd. Bethesda was on the other side of the country. I was at Balboa… or wasn't I? One of the nurses let it slip one night by accident when I asked her point blank where I was. Everyone clammed up after that. I'd made a mistake, I knew that now. But why was I at Bethesda and not at Balboa? And where the hell was Veronica?

I was so confused and needed answers. The urge to get up and leave, find a phone, call home and hear her voice, that was what kept me going, kept me sane, kept me pushing to regain my strength and heal. There at the end of a tunnel shone a light, and in the light stood a shadow, waiting for me, wanting me to come home.

Every single question I asked was left unanswered, the light at the end of the tunnel slowly extinguished into dreadful darkness. And that darkness just pushed me further and further towards the abyss I'd hoped never to encounter again. I stood there, at that abyss, so many times before, looking down into the nothingness that was beckoning to swallow me whole. I resisted the pull, clinging to my lifeline, hoping that one day, when that door would open again, she'd walk in, crying, telling me she was so sorry for not being here sooner. And I'd forgive her, as I always did, because that was the only thing that would draw me away from the abyss.

But she never came. No-one came. Not a word, no call, nothing. The first familiar face walked through the door one afternoon in the form of my CO. I still remember the relief I felt when I saw him. He'd be able to tell me - where was Veronica, why wasn't she here, why hasn't she called? I wasn't prepared for what he told me at all. The moment I heard _there's something I need to tell you_ , I knew. I just knew. It was the only explanation there was. 

The pain in my chest intensified, washed over me, numbed my whole body. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't focus. My vision blurred as I felt the tears threatening to spill from my eyes. I wasn't able to keep it together any longer. All this time, deep down, I'd known. She wouldn't stay away from me willingly, wouldn't give me the silent treatment, not after everything we’ve worked for, fought for, unless… unless she just… _wasn't_ anymore. 

I still can hear the words in my head, they still sting like nothing else does. _I'm sorry. She's gone._ The folder he tried to hand me slipped from my fingers, papers and photos cluttering on the floor. I was in no shape or form to react to anything that happened after that. He gathered the documents from the floor, dropped them on my bed, and with his deep, sombre voice told me to _let her go._ Let her go… as if it was that easy-peasy. You don't just let go of the person you love more than your own life.

I just lay there, cradled in the nothingness, accepted, and no longer cared. There was nothing left to fight for. I was back at the abyss, right at the edge, gazing down into the nothingness. _If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you._ It stared up at me with a pair of piercing yellow eyes, taunting me like it had done for so many years ages ago. The darkness crept up again, seeped through every pore, invaded my body like I was its most natural host. Succumb to the numbness, accept the nothingness, anything to silence the voice, dull the pain. It laughed at me in its most pitiful voice, anchoring me in the nothingness, mocking me as it held me captive. The abyss had claimed me once again.

I was transferred to a regular room a week later. Just me, no windows, no TV, nothing. A small, dark room with an even darker door that led to what looked from my bed as a tunnel into nothingness. They sent me from one isolation chamber to another. I got the textbook Guantanamo treatment. Don't talk to me, keep me in silence. Keep the lights off, let me succumb to the darkness. Turn up the volume of all these machines monitoring me, torment me with their miniscule sounds. Check in on me every hour, deprive me of sleep. 

I was taught once how these procedures work, what they can do to a person. Never ever would I have imagined to find myself subjected to these “enhanced interrogation” techniques intended to break me, especially on homeland territory. I was in a prison, confined by a bed and hospital walls. And break me they did.

It wasn't until months later when I was in Syria, teaching the very same techniques to the wayward teenagers in my care that I fully realized how exactly they'd manipulated me into becoming the person that was preparing new ISIS recruits for war. At that moment, there was this spark that ignited the embers that eventually turned into a blaze and pulled me out of the darkness, away from the abyss and back into the light. Back into the living and guiding me back to the place where I truly belonged. 

"Nell looked up your CO. You know what happened to him?"

I look up at Deeks and I can see it registering in his eyes that he's pulled me back from somewhere far, far away. I lean back in my chair, rub my hands over my face, trying to wipe away the traces of the darkness and the nothingness that somehow still find their way into my thoughts to torment me. I reach for the can of Coke, gulp down two large swigs, then turn my attention back to Deeks.

"Wallace told me, training accident last fall." 

"Pretty dinky coincidence," Deeks shrugs. "The incident was under investigation by the San Diego office because the circumstances were marked suspicious. It was eventually declared an accident. Nell also found travel plans to Suitland, Maryland, he’d filed in May last year. Four trips within a month. They were listed as meetings with the COMONI and the DoD. She couldn’t find any trips prior or after that. I suspect one of those trips must have included a little side trip to Bethesda."

I squint my eyes, looking at the tablet between us that shows several pieces of paper, all of which I can make out as travel orders issued by the Navy. My Captain's name I can read upside down, but a lot of words and lines are blacked out, making it impossible to figure out what he was doing in DC.

"We're not that far up in the chain of command to actually take direct orders from the DoD."

"Strategic planning is always best done in person, you know that. So if, and I'm really stressing the _if_ , someone was planning a covert operation against ISIS, then it better be done face-to-face."

"I just can't understand… why us? Why me? There must be better suited people out there, with more experience, more training. We're Naval Intelligence, not SEALS."

"See it as a vote of confidence in your skills that they picked you."

"I would've rather taken a promotion instead," I mutter. Anything would have been better than what they put me through. What they put Veronica through. 

If they'd included me in their plans, had flat-out asked me if I wanted to be a part of whatever their plans were… I'm not so sure I would have said no. 180 days isn't a lifetime. We've dealt with it before, we came out stronger than before. We would have survived somehow, I'm pretty sure. We always did. Now this - I'm not so sure we're able to survive. We're both badly broken, and what took years to rebuild and fix before, I'm not sure we're able to salvage again.

"You wanna know what else Nell found?" Deeks asks and I just nod at him silently. "The night your car blew up, there was an emergency medical transport from Balboa to Bethesda. One John Doe, severe burns, critical condition. John Doe disappeared into the night, but early the next morning, one Patrick O’Neill was admitted to the burn unit at Bethesda in critical condition. Ring a bell?”

"Patrick O'Neill," I breathe. Interesting. I didn't receive that identity until weeks later when I'd signed up for my new mission objective. Up until then, I was still Logan Echolls - it was what everyone at the hospital called me. Lieutenant Commander Logan Echolls. Not Patrick O'Neill. Apparently, another thing I was wrong about.

"Did you find my medical records?"

"No, that’d require a little more time and a lot more hoops to jump through to get access to. Nell's a genius, but not a Goddess. Your best bet, try the billing department. They have a record of everything down to the dime. Patrick O'Neill was the only name that didn't pan out. A civilian whose bills were covered by the DoD? Lots of red flags going up. I assume you're familiar with that name?"

I nod. It's a name I'm very familiar with. The moment I set foot on that plane to Germany, it was goodbye Logan Echolls and hello Patrick O'Neill.

"The official paper trail for Patrick O'Neill ends after your ten-week stay at Bethesda. There's nothing popping up after that anywhere. So what were you up to? Let's spill it, Mouth. Live up to your callsign."

"Very funny."

"C'mon, I'm always in for entertaining bedtime stories. Tell me one. If it's a good one, I may just pass it on to my future children." 

"If your idea of a bedtime story includes treachery, murder and confinement, please never have kids."

"Have you ever read one of Grimm's fairy tales? Or watched a Disney movie? Giving kids nightmares since the nineteenth century."

"Fine."

So I tell him about Newman, the Commander with the shiny, polished Information Warfare Specialist Insignia who came to visit me about a week before they released me from Bethesda. Early 40s, a short buzzcut that allowed his light blonde hair to perfectly blend into his fair skin. Kinda reminded me of Bruce Willis in the _Fifth Element_ , except a bit more lanky and not as stacked. He told me about ISIS, about Syria and Iraq, about the teenagers they'd started to recruit again from all over the world and how it was just a matter of time until they'd unleash their wrath on the Western world again. He left me two folders with pictures, maps, reports, and a mission offering that was too tempting to turn down. 

I was sure this was it. The thrill, the danger that would allow me to forget. The one thing that would give me purpose again. Allow me to go on. Live again. It was junior year all over again, when the promise of a new start was offered to me. No questions asked. I didn't need to think about it much. There was nothing else I needed to do, nowhere else I needed to be. Leave the old life behind, start anew. As far away from Neptune as possible. 

After almost two weeks in rehab in Bowie, I was cleared for duty, handed my papers and on a plane to Germany the next day. I should have questioned this sudden move, the strong painkillers in my bag and my still-bandaged shoulder and thigh a clear indication that physically, I wasn't anywhere near as fit as needed for a mission like this. But frankly, I didn't care. I needed to leave, needed to forget. 

The tempting voice in my head calling from the abyss - it reassured me, empowered me, cradled me in a sense of security that this was what I needed to do. Throwing all caution to the wind, not daring to even think about everything that lay behind. If my poor physical condition hadn't tipped me off already, this should have been my wake-up call that I was supposed to be anywhere but on my way to a fucking warzone.

I landed in Ramstein, was introduced to those briefing me for this mission. Lieutenant Commanders Michael Abbott and Henry Gibbons, who both claimed to be ONI. Third in the group was Chip Harrison, a young, nerdy outside contractor. Knowing what I know now, I wonder if those were even their real names, if they were even Navy, or if Scientech was Harrison's employer. They all briefed me on local customs, religion, topography, military strategies and tactics… basically everything that made me look like a true believer of the cause and would allow me to infiltrate and manage to stay alive.

Deeks jots down the names, dates and places that I give him. From Bethesda to Bowie to Ramstein. The trail of a guy running far from his past towards a future unknown. 

"You really never talked to anyone at all during that time?" he finally asks as he turns off the tablet and places it back down on the table. "Family? Friends?"

"Can we just stick to the facts?" I grumble, not quite ready to go down that route, at least not with Deeks.

"I'm just trying to understand you cause if it'd been me, I would have called Miss Piggy and all of the Muppets to find out what's happened back home."

It’s not that I’ve never asked myself that question. Ever since I found out Veronica was in fact very much alive, it’s all I’ve been asking. Why didn’t I? Why hadn’t I just picked up the damn phone and called back home when I had the chance? Instead, I allowed the abyss to control me and gave in to the beckoning voice in my head. _Forget her - let go of her - set yourself free_. Anything to not keep drifting back to the dreams that occupied me during the nights. Dreams of the life I had back in Neptune. Friends. Family. Veronica. Especially Veronica. Most always Veronica.

The nights were bad, really bad. Sometimes I wouldn’t get more than a couple hours of sleep before I jolted awake, sweaty, shaking, reminded by the emptiness around me that reality was a big sucking asshole. I couldn’t allow myself to go back to sleep after, knowing my mind would drift back to the one person I desperately needed to forget. Every single memory of her, even the tiniest bit… it hurt like hell. Knowing that she wasn’t going to walk through the door anymore, that sweet smile on her face that I knew was just directed at me, that she wasn’t going to give me shit any longer about waking her before the crack of dawn just because I needed to feel her in my arms, that there wasn’t going to be another _I love you_ echoing between us… this wasn’t just hell, it was eternal damnation. I could no longer cling to the hope that had crept into my dreams for nine long years that one day, our paths would cross again and I would get another chance at doing it right. There were no more second, third, fourth or fifth chances. There was just never.

I know one phone call to anyone back home in Neptune would've put an end to all this even before it had started. But I just couldn’t bring myself to talk to those who’d known her… my thoughts inadvertently would've drifted to her, what we had, what I had lost, and the pain was just too much to bear. I crawled into that pit the abyss had created for me, a resting place so dark but also comforting and tranquil. I put up the walls that I thought I’d left behind and did the one thing I thought would help when the offer came knocking at my door - I ran. I ran so far from everything, physically and emotionally, that when I looked into the mirror one morning, I didn’t even recognize the person I had become. It scared the living shit out of me because the face that was staring back at me, it was me while at the same time it wasn’t. 

"Sore spot, I get it," Deeks apologizes, as the tablet lets out a loud _ding ding ding_ , indicating that Eric is calling us back from HQ. His face appears on the screen a second later, smiling as usual. 

"Hey guys, just a short update about the names you sent over earlier. Nell's still looking into Newman; the list that popped up with relations to anything even remotely Naval Intelligence was a bit extensive. It needs some cross-referencing. I ran Abbott and Gibbons. There is no-one by those names with ONI or in any other branch of the Navy. I did find one Captain Henry Gibbons, but he's a sixty-seven-year-old retired Navy chaplain, so I don't think you were talking about him. I pulled up a list of all registered male personnel at Ramstein, both stationed and temp, for the time in question. I'll send you a list of the names along with their service photos when accessible. For non-military personnel and visitors I'd either have to resort to local logs and surveillance or cross-check with federal databases. Either way, that's gonna take a while, so I suggest you start with what I've sent over."

_"_ Eric, July fourth," I reply before Deeks ends the call, "the four of us went to the party at the Sports Lounge that night. There was an incident that involved military police and almost a stay in the drunk tank. There must be a record of that somewhere."

"I should be able to pull those records. I'll get back to you when I've found something."

I know I now need to spill the details about that dreadful Fourth of July. About how I got absolutely shitfaced, got caught up in a brawl that I didn't even start and would’ve ended up in the drunk tank if it wasn't for Harrison. It was a shitty end to an even shittier day.

I’d gotten up that morning, picked up the files from the table in my room, and plopped back down on my bed with the sole intention of occupying my mind on the mission objective for the rest of the day. It was how I spent most of my free time at Ramstein, keep my mind busy so I wouldn't be able to think past the matter at hand. Blend out the voice in my head that kept beckoning me to succumb to the darkness. Pop a painkiller once in a while, hoping it wouldn't only subdue the physical pain but also the emotional.

I was keeping myself busy, the TV in the background showing last year's PBS’ _A Capitol Fourth._ I kept my mind focused on what lay scattered on the bed in front of me, brushing up on my Arabic and filling in gaps on Islam and the Quran. I actually had gotten a pretty decent amount of sleep the night before, whatever they say about painkillers mixed with alcohol, it’s absolutely true. For once, it was just the dark, bleak abyss in my dreams that taunted me with tranquility, silence and peace. I was doing fairly okay until the sounds started echoing through my room. The first deep _boom_ had me sitting up straight on the bed. I couldn’t quite locate where it had come from when another _boom_ echoed through the room, followed by several distinctive _pop pop pop_. I was up and off the bed and crouching on the floor against the wall, head between my legs, before I even realized that what I was hearing were the fireworks over the Lincoln Memorial on TV. 

I’ve seen and been through a lot of shit in my Navy days, hell, even before that, and this wasn't the first time that sounds like that had set me off and literally sent me into a panic. I knew these symptoms well enough to recognize them for what they were. I was shaking like crazy, hyperventilating, cold sweating… my PTSD had finally flared up again. It had taken years and years of therapy until I'd reached a point where I could actually live with it and even the most mundane sounds and smells wouldn't set me off like this anymore. 

Now there I sat, huddled in the corner of my room, shaking like a leaf, and all I could think about was how much I wanted and needed Veronica right that moment. I didn't want a phone call with my therapist to dive deep into what had set me off and how to cope with it. I knew exactly what the trigger was and how to deal with it. I needed Veronica. She’d sit with me, hold me, just be there for me, and reassure me that everything would be okay. Then the realization slowly hit that I’d never get to hold her again or hear her say that I would be all right. She was gone. She’d never return. 

The programming was long over when I came to my senses again. I lay on the floor, curled into a ball, dry tears plastering my face. My whole body was aching, the emotional pain more than I could handle. With trembling hands, I opened the drawer of the nightstand and picked up the bottle of pills I kept there. I popped it open and palmed two of the painkillers, then staggered across the room to the fridge. A minute later, I had downed the pills with a whole bottle of beer. Pills and booze… years ago, I'd sworn to myself to never walk down that road again, but frankly, I no longer cared. I just wanted to forget and dull the pain. 

Except it didn't quite work the way I needed it to work. It didn't numb me enough to keep the memories at bay. The voices outside kept yelling _Happy Fourth of July_ , and as much as I tried to block them out until I managed to shut the damn window, they'd done their deed and had pulled me down memory lane. Veronica. Everything centered around Veronica. 

I'm thirteen, sitting on the edge of the pool at the Kane house, feet dangling in the warm water when I hear this sweet, happy voice calling out _Happy Fourth, Captain Crunch_ before two small hands grab my shoulders and shove me into the water. I surface a moment later, coughing and spitting water, and am greeted by a bout of giggles as she sits down in the spot I occupied before. She splashes water at me, and I can't help but be absolutely mesmerized by that warm, angelic smile that has spread across her whole face.

I'm seventeen, lying on the beach curled up under a blanket and watching the clear night sky when a whisper breaks the silence _. Happy Fourth, surfer boy._ A hand slips over my chest as she nestles closer to me, her head pressed tightly against my shoulder.

And suddenly I'm thirty, sprawled out in a lounge chair in Keith's backyard, with her curled up in my arms, just enjoying the warm, sunny day, when that same sweet voice whispers to me again. _Happy Fourth, flyboy. To many more to come._

A second beer and another pill finally did the trick, dulling the pain and silencing the voices of the present and the past. I saw nothing but the yellow eyes glaring up at me from the abyss, keeping me locked in, paralyzed, unable to think. When the haze slowly cleared, another beer beckoned, but the fridge just stared at me eerily empty. The Sports Bar sounded like a welcome distraction. Strangers to keep me distracted, and a bartender serving me without a question. 

When Abbott and Gibbons joined me around seven, I was already five beers in the lead. By the time Harrison showed up, I'd set the bar to an additional two beers and two scotches. Three additional tequila shots and two more painkillers later is where my memory gets a bit sketchy. 

I remember... this girl brushing against me, her hand on my thigh as she giggles hysterically and rattles on about things I'm not interested in. A moment later, she's yanked away by a guy with broad shoulders, his eyes glaring at me as he spits out some incoherent words. Even before I can react, his fist connects with my jaw, and I tumble backwards, falling off the chair. I see him towering over me as I scramble to my feet, his arm raised high, ready for another assault, so I just ram my head into his gut, sending him stumbling for a few steps before he regains his balance and hurls himself at me once again.

The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed the next morning with an explosive headache that had me believing someone had mistaken my head for a punching bag. An empty trashcan and two bottles of water were strategically placed right next to the bed with a simple note that said _Call me ASAP. Harrison._

For a split second, all I could think was _shit. Veronica's gonna be so pissed when she finds out._ Then reality reeled me in once again, reminding me so vividly why I'd gotten wasted in the first place. My hands clutched the trash can tightly as I puked and emptied the contents of my stomach, retching, coughing and spitting. Tears streamed down my cheeks as my head hung over the can, my sobs clustered with the heaving. That was when realization finally hit that I'd lost the fight for good. The abyss had fully claimed me again, those piercing yellow eyes, the voice in my head my faithful companions again. My one constant, my tether, was gone forever.

Deeks' phone that is sitting on the table suddenly starts coming to life, doing a little shake-your-booty dance as it's silently vibrating against the surface. He eyes the number on the screen, then immediately answers, swiping his finger across the screen.

"Kens, I put you on speaker. What's up?"

"I just talked to Hetty. Apparently one of Nell's searches triggered a red flag with Homeland Security. She got an inquiry about Logan a few minutes ago."

Deeks tilts his head as he looks up at me, "I guess that was all the go we needed to keep on digging."

"She suggested we take Logan and Veronica to the safe house in Reseda at least for tonight before the Feds come asking questions with a warrant. I'm taking Veronica over now, you guys should join us ASAP."

"Pick up dinner at JoJo's on the way. We're bringing home a lot of work, it's gonna be a long night. Roger and out."

He picks up his phone, slipping it into his back pocket as he gets up. 

"Okay, Echolls. Interest piqued. Let's get to the bottom of this."

**Author's Note:**

> While I already have most of the plot for this story and Logan's backstory written out in my head, I'd really like to hear from you guys what you think works and what doesn't and what maybe needs more explanation. You can either leave me comments here or find me on Discord at the VM Fic Club :-)


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